Castle Fanfic: He Bought, She Bought
by CharacterDriven
Summary: A frustrated Beckett goes shopping, subconsciously selecting some rather elongated vegetables. A frustrated Castle also goes shopping, and everything he buys seems to be cream-filled. The farmer's market may never be the same. AU for S3:1.
1. Chapter 1

**Castle fanfic -**

 **He Bought, She Bought  
**  
 _Take a trip to the farmer's market. Enjoy the sun!_

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 **September 5, 2010, 8:39 a.m.  
**

It was the Saturday morning before Labor Day, and the weather was gorgeous. Kate Beckett was at the Soho Farmer's Market. She'd gone for a run with a nylon fabric shopping bag and a twenty stashed in her sports bra, and here she was, at the slightly-more-upscale farmer's market in SoHo, foraging for produce in the Urban Jungle. She was enjoying her weekend solitude, knowing full well that she'd be among the few manning the bullpen on Monday, when most of the other NYPD union members would be off at a massive picnic. She didn't really like picnics much... all those people with their kids, all that squealing and giggling and the sack races and stupid team-building crap. She already had a team. Most of a team. Part of it was gone: Castle was gone, off to the Hamptons with his blonde harpy's claws firmly dug into his manly biceps. And she wasn't sure she wanted him to come back, except that she wondered what it would be like to do a three-legged race with Castle and fall down with him at her side, laughing. Just for, you know, team-building purposes.

"NO. Not going there," she told her ovaries, which were pinging softly somewhere deep in her lower abdomen. Damn mittelschmerz.

She got a coffee from the bearded hipster with the portable-roaster-and-one-cup-at-a-time setup. When she asked for "two pumps of sugar free vanilla and nonfat milk," he just scowled at her from under his curled mustache.

"This is mountain-grown Hawaiian Peaberry coffee. We do not besmirch its pure essence with artificial sweeteners and nonfat milk," he scolded. The Unsullied Mountain-grown Hawaiian Peaberry coffee was slow in coming, and it was hellaciously bitter, and he only had artisanal organic shaved loaf sugar and whole milk, so she made do with what he had. She'd gone running. She'd paid $4.25 for the coffee. She'd waited 6 minutes and 14 seconds for it (according to the clock outside the jewelry store). And damned if she wasn't gonna enjoy it.

As she stood sipping her still-too-hot drink, she stared across at the window of a small bookstore to see Richard Castle staring back at her. She jumped slightly, her heart doing a flipflop that might have been either horror or joy. And then she realized, "Oh. Flat Castle." It was a cardboard cutout of her nemesis/chronicler/worst nightmare/secret wildest fantasy/former best friend/disappearing act ghost disappointment. She mumbled, "No matter where you go, here you aren't."

She found herself fancying something sweet, and her nose was drawn to the churro cart, just past the "Heritage Squash and Pumpkin" booth.

She bought a churro, and leaned against the low wall of a small local park to nibble on its brown, sweet, spicy length. A man passing by her gave her a disgusting leer and murmured, "Looks tasty, honey." She scowled at him, then bit the churro- hard, chomping on it and continuing the death stare until he backed away slowly, sweating a little.

"Yeah, keep walking, Bozo," she snapped. You don't have to be a cop to be terrifying. Just live in New York during sundress season. Women learn fast.

Now completely turned off by the prospect of eating her churro in public, she tossed the rest of it to a family of three crows who were poking around in the grass. Richard Castle's voice in her head piped up, from sometime last spring, before he went away and didn't call all summer and still hadn't and where the hell was he and good riddance. _"I love crows. They're almost as smart as ravens. You know the collective noun?"_

"Yes, Castle. A murder of crows."

 _"That is so hot." He was playing with a piece of string, tying an incredibly complicated knot. A monkey's fist. She'd had to look it up, when he wasn't looking. "A knot of toads."_

" _A skulk of foxes. An exaltation of larks."_

 _"A bevy of beauties." He'd looked at her sweetly and waggled his eyebrows. "But there's only one of you."_

Still sitting on the park wall, _s_ he blushed, even though he wasn't there anymore, and took a sip of her miserable cup of bitter injustice. Her memory of Castle nattered on in her head.

 _"You know crows can use tools, right?"_

 _"Bend wire to collect food. Open gate locks to steal dog food. Yup."_

 _"But they can't make chains out of paper clips."_

 _"Nope. It takes someone really special achieve that level of engineering mastery."_

Speaking of tools. Why hadn't he called?

Maybe because she'd been an abrasive bitch one too many times? But... he hadn't seemed to mind. If anything, the challenge just seemed to rev him up.

Maybe if she'd been nicer to him, he wouldn't have left. Had she been a bitch? Why had it felt like flirting? Why hadn't she dumped Demming sooner? She sighed, stopped back at the "Heritage Squash and Pumpkin" booth, and bought some zucchini, both in dark green and pale yellow with green stripes.

" _Courgettes", Castle whispered in her head. This was from sometime last May. "I know this French hotel where they're grated with carrots and parsnips, sautéed with butter, salt, and pepper... so simple, but it's perfect."_

" _You mean you eat something other than sugar?" she'd smirked._

 _He'd looked at her wordlessly for a moment, then a devastating, lazy smile had overtaken his face, and Kate was blushing again. "Yes," he'd said. His blue eyes fixed on hers, then a long, slow blink. She'd had to get up and go to the water fountain to clear her head._

That was all he'd said. But she knew what he meant. _Damn him._

Even this early, it was a little muggy, and the sun was warm. She felt a gentle trickle of sweat down the middle of her back. She went to the Rooty Tooty Veg and Fruity booth, where she was greeted warmly by Manuela, whom she'd seen at the Soho farmer's market every other summer Saturday since she bought her apartment. (You don't buy an apartment like that on a rookie's salary, not in Manhattan. She'd inherited some money from her mom, her dad had kicked in part of the down payment, her Aunt Teresa had a spare $10,000 lying around. If not for their help, she would have been renting a closet in a 5th story walk-up in Queens, at least for the first few years when she was doing traffic and beat work).

Manuela had gray-streaked hair pulled back in a bun, but she was still young and wore her fifth child in a backpack as she worked over the tables of fresh vegetables. "Good morning, Kate!" she cried.

Kate beamed at her, and at Renaldo, who was ten months old. He gave her a smile, and she exclaimed, as she did every time she saw him, "Who is that big boy on your back?"

Manuela shrugged. "Aw, we were out pickin' apples and found him up a tree. I think he's some kinda monkey."

"At the rate he's growing, he'll be like King Kong in no time." Kate grabbed a plastic bag and sorted through a mixed pile of carrots: white, orange, deep-red, purple, yellow. "These look amazing. But it's always hard to decide whether I want to go with the long, thin ones or the shorter, fat ones."

"That's something you have to decide for yourself, honey! It depends on what you plan to do with them." Manuela laughed, then winked at her.

 _"I am not gonna go there,"_ Kate thought. "The weather's still hot, so salad."

"The skinny ones don't even need to be peeled."

Kate picked out some medium-sized carrots in orange, red, and creamy white, enough to last the week (the last orange carrot was doomed to lie in the bottom of her crisper drawer, slowly mummifying into a black and twisted wreck of its former vibrant self). "So what else is good today?"

"Everything, honey, everything. The apples are from Blueberry Hill – no, don't bother with the Red Delicious, they just look pretty. Go for the Gravensteins – just the end of their season. They don't look like much, but smell. Amazing, right? The absolute best for sauce."

Kate nodded and selected three squat green apples, streaked with red, russeted on their humped shoulders.

Manuela added, "And look – the last of the cling peaches. The farm has this one little hollow where it's colder and blooms later, so the peaches are late too." She glanced past Kate for a moment, welcoming an incoming customer with a bright smile.

Kate picked up a glowing, burgundy-streaked yellow peach and sniffed. "Mmm."

Behind Kate, a man's deep voice said, "Smells like summer in here."

She just nodded at his voice inside her head, remembering... wait. He'd never said that.

She whirled. " _Castle?_ "

 **End chapter 1  
**

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 _Wow. I've received more reviews on this story than any other. Thanks to all the likers, followers, & guests. I'm up to multiple chapters and it seems to be warming up as it goes...  
Please feel free to introduce yourselves! :-) **  
**_


	2. HBSB ch2: Going bananas

**Chapter 2 - Going Bananas  
**

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"Beckett!" he said with a cheesy grin of triumph, as if she were the answer to a question on a game show.

He looked so damn chipper, his dark-brown hair tipped with reddish streaks from the sun, his face lightly tanned with a dusting of freckles on nose and upper cheeks, his frame tucked neatly into a faded Green Lantern tee and oh, dear God in heaven, khaki canvas shorts and sandals. No Batman socks. Gina had probably made him take them off before he left the loft. He was pushing a high-tech shopping caddy, with a black wire frame. It had little levels like apartment floors, lined with sturdy black cordura baskets that stacked neatly, ensuring nothing would get squashed. It probably cost more than Kate's car. Of course the cart had a cup holder, but it held a little plastic flowerpot with fresh chives growing in it.

"Oh, hey, Rick," said Manuela, with a teasing smile. "Where you been all this time?"

Beckett just gawped at him, then at Manuela. He made no move to shake Kate's hand or, God forbid, kiss her hello. Nothing. She noticed Rick was holding a disposable coffee cup. He ignored her flapping jaw and responded to Manuela, which in the face of her astonishment, was sort of merciful on his part.

"Hamptons. Then a book tour," he twinkled. "You look wonderful, Manuela, is Frank around?" He waggled his eyebrows playfully.

She batted her eyelashes at him. "Not right now."

"Well, he's missing out." Rick leaned across a pile of yams to exchange a peck on the cheek with the giggling proprietress. Little Renaldo looked at him with suspicion (he was not fond of strange men in general) and Rick said, "Who is this giant baby? It's been... forever! Months, right? But... wow. Are you really Renaldo?"

Manuela laughed. "Oh, it's definitely him. Still drooling." Her shoulder was, in fact, draped with a sodden burp cloth. "I use him for air conditioning."

"Alexis was like a swamp cooler at that age," Rick grinned. "Does he like bagels?"

"He's teething, so yeah. Thanks!"

"These are just baked." Castle glanced at Kate and said, "Mind holding this?" In her confusion, Kate set down her own monumentally disappointing cup of coffee, placing it on the battered produce table next to her bag of carrots, and took the cup from Castle. She stood there feeling like a third wheel while he opened the basket, then a lumpy paper bag, and the scent of warm bagels wafted out. Her stomach growled. That bite of churro hadn't even made a dent in her hunger.

"We have plain, sesame, poppy-seed, and pumpkin spice."

Manuela snorted. "Pumpkin spice. Ha!" But she took one, tore it in half, and handed the half back to Renaldo, who gummed it appreciatively. "Da, da, da!"

Rick turned to Kate. "Beckett, isn't 'Da' 'yes' in Russian?"

Kate nodded. "So it is." Without thinking, from force of habit, she took a sip from his coffee cup in her hand, and murmured, "Mmm. Thanks, Castle. It's perfect."

He grinned. "My pleasure."

It was also... his coffee.

She almost choked. "Oh! Migod. I'm so sorry... I forgot..." she held it out to him, intending to hand it back, but he showed no intention of taking it, just tilted his head with a curious expression. She stopped. Looked down at the cup. Her name was sort of written on it - "BEKIT" (not all baristas have read the classics) and all the little boxes were checked: 2 shot nonfat grande latte, 2 pumps sugar free vanilla syrup. She looked up at him, baffled, maybe a little annoyed, definitely embarrassed. "Were you _following_ me?"

"No!" (which was as close to a yes as she could reasonably expect from him). "I was just coming out of the bagel shop on my way to pick up some doughnuts, and there you were, feeling up Manuela's peaches." He winked at Manuela, who swatted at him and giggled. "Thought I'd surprise you. Did it work?"

Kate felt like the game animal hiding behind a tree in that old Gary Larson cartoon: _"I've got to think!"_ But all that came out of her mouth was a strangled, "Yeah. Thanks!"

"Looks like it sure did," Manuela smirked. "So you two know each other?"

Rick put his hand up by his mouth and stage-whispered, "This is my Enigmatic and Extraordinary Muse."

Manuela gasped. "No. REALLY? Oh, my God, Kate, _you're_ Nikki Heat?

Kate nodded, her face flaming. "Not exactly, but yeah." They'd never been on a first-and-last-name basis.

Manuela had had no reason to suspect it. "Never would have crossed my mind, but now that I know, it makes total sense."

Renaldo said, "DA!" and gleefully pounded his mother's upper arm with a drool-soaked piece of bagel.

 _Enigmatic? Extraordinary?_ Kate tried not to wince. "Just – a technical consultant," she said.

"Oh, I loved that part with the limes. Here..." Manuela was piling limes into a plastic bag. "These are key limes. They're on me. You could..."

"Make margaritas." said Rick.

"Make pie!" Beckett blurted.

"Oh, you two are so cute together!" Manuela said.

"By the way, speaking of cute, where is your adorable husband?" asked Kate.

"Oh, Frank wrenched his back this morning. He always overfills the crates, says it takes less time, but then I can't lift them and he winds up doing all the work. He's laying down in the back of the truck with an ice pack."

"Ouch," said Rick.

"Aw, he's napping and listening to the game while I slave over a hot pile of parsnips. He's fine."

"Parsnips?" said Kate.

"First of the season."

She pointed, and Kate spotted the parsnips, bulbous white cylinders, nestled among the blushing radishes and blowsy beets.

Manuela added, "They need a good frost to sweeten up, but if you throw them in the fridge a few days, that'll help. Go for the biggest ones, the kind with a knob at the end. More bang for your buck."

Castle said, "The bigger the better." He took a bite from a plain bagel slathered with strawberry jam and cream cheese.

Kate turned to him with a hint of amusement in her eyes. "And you would know this, how?"

"Hey, I'm more than just a pretty face eating pretty things," Castle said. Around a very-full mouth, he added, "I've spent a lot of time researching my roots."

Manuela laughed. "Ah, you! Get out of my booth with your crappy puns. You are a bad influence on my little one's developing language skills."

"I'm not leaving without the peaches!" Castle protested, but with the bagel in one hand and the bag in the other, he didn't know what to do with his hands. He took another bite. Kate found herself watching him lick the pink cream cheese off his upper lip and wondering if he... needed... help... with... that.

"Can you bag some peaches up for me?" he said to Manuela, all puppydog eyes. "Please?"

"Only if you behave." Manuela took a bag down off the roller and selected for him.

"Keep going... keep going... let's make it 5 pounds. I'll freeze some for smoothies. Mother's on a smoothie kick again. Okay, 6 pounds."

He handed his bagel to Kate. "Wallet. Hold this? Thanks."

She looked down at the bitten bagel. It was still warm, the strawberry cream cheese oozing through the hole in the center. Any moment, it would drip all over her hand, and she didn't have a napkin. He fished around in his pocket, then his wallet, and handed Manuela $30. "That should cover both of our tabs," he grinned, and turned to Kate just in time to find her sucking cream cheese off her index finger, her eyes wide with guilt.

"Oh, Castle, you don't have to..." she flailed ineffectively, both hands full and her bag of produce slung over her elbow, trying to find her cash.

"Manuela, she's been keeping her money in her bra."

"Nuff said!" Manuela laughed, "I ain't gonna launder no money!" Manuela tossed Rick a bottle of hand sanitizer. "You clean those hands before you touch those peaches again."

"Peaches. I've been dreaming of those peaches all summer," said Rick, not looking at Kate's breasts at all, nope, even though she was now blushing clear down to her cleavage.

"Good thing you made it back while they're still in season!" Manuela tittered. "Now you get home and no squeezing them out on the street where people can see."

"I have New York's Finest here to keep me out of trouble," Rick said. "Detective?"

Kate hesitated. She wasn't with him. She didn't have to...

"Were you planning to eat my bagel too? I mean, if you're hungry, that's fine, you're welcome..."

"Oh. No, of course not!" She went to hand it back to him, but he turned, striding away so quickly she had to run a few steps to catch up. "Castle! What the hell?"

"You look like you want it."

"Want what?"

"The bagel."

"I am perfectly capable of buying my own bagels, I've been buying my own bagels for a good third of my life now and..."

"I'm sure you're very skilled at anything to do with solo bagel consumption, just as you seem to master anything that captivates your attention." He stopped abruptly in front of the corner bodega, which was at the end of the first block of the two-block farmer's market. He grabbed two bananas from the counter and paid for them. "You look like you've been running, Beckett. Potassium's just the thing for those post-run blahs."

"I'm not... blah," she huffed. She caught a glance at herself in the round convex mirror above the cash register. Her hair was a stringy mess from running, she hadn't taken a shower yet this morning, and she had a pink smear of cream cheese on her jaw. "Oh, my god."

The clerk, who was probably named Darrell, watched her walk away and sneered, "That's what _she_ said." He expected an answering, conspiratorial smirk from Castle, who had just been teasing Beckett. But something in the writer's expression shut him up cold, and in fact, haunted Darrell's dreams to the point where he didn't dare talk smack to a woman for the next three months and twenty-nine days, at which time Darrell said to a girl named Maria, "Dat ass so hot I could grill a sausage on it," and Maria, his intended victim, snapped a photo of him, Tweetered it, and got him fired by his utterly disgusted Aunt Millie.

Kate didn't notice the exchange between Rick and Darrell-the-witless-bodega-clerk. She scuttled over to the hot water dispenser at the coffee station, dripped a little on a napkin, and scrubbed the cream cheese off her face. Then she collected her coffee and the rest of the bagel (now safely wrapped in a napkin) and the two left the store. Castle looked up and down the farmer's market booths, squinting against the bright sun reflected off the blue and white popup tents, and pulled out a pair of sunglasses. He put one banana in Kate's produce bag, "For later," and started peeling the other, with fingers nearly as thick. How he got anything done with those hands she could only speculate.

"Well," he said. "I've got peaches and bagels, next stop? Berries. Then cronuts on the way home."

"Bagels and cronuts?"

"Late brunch, early afternoon tea. Something like that. Bunch of writers. We will drink mimosas and complain about book tours, then segue into drinking gin-and-tonics and complaining about writing. Then we will play charades, badly; play with my poetry fridge magnets, toss around write prompts, maybe do a beautiful corpse exercise, and top it off with single malt while eating barbecued steaks and reading the worst erotic fan fiction we can find."

"Really?" Kate rolled her eyes.

"Furries, talking trees, and intrepid pirate princesses. Maybe a lost crystal and a psychic baby. Then tomorrow afternoon, each of us awakening at the asscrack of 2pm and staggering into our own kitchens, we will drink coffee and complain about hangovers, and email one another incomprehensible snippets of writing done while under the influence. We'll swear never to do it again, then schedule another session for the emotional and cultural vaccuum that is mid-January."

 _Don't go. Good riddance. Fuck, that sounds fun. "_ Oh. You're in a hurry then." She tried to sound relieved but why did it come out disappointed?

He chuckled. "Are you kidding? They won't even fall out of bed till noon on a long weekend. It's barely nine a.m." She could see her own deer-in-the-headlights reflection in his glasses. He continued blithely, "The morning is ours, Detective. Presuming that you have... nothing else..." He held the half-peeled banana out to her. "... to do."

She would have rejected the banana except that he bobbed it up and down and made dolphin noises while the peel flapped at its sides like fins. "Icka. Icka. Ee-ee-ee-eieieiei eee."

Across the way, the troubador on guitar started the gentle strains of a waltz, and sang into his tinny PA: "They call him Flipper, Flipper faster than light-ning, no one you seeeee is smarter than heeeee..."

"Anything to make you stop," she snapped, and handed the rest of the strawberry bagel back to him, then grabbed the banana.

She ate the banana quickly as Castle dropped a $10 into the troubadour's guitar case. They passed the Indian spice booth, the mushroom man (Kate took one look at the Matsutaki, her mouth flooded with saliva, and she decided to keep walking before she got thrown out of the farmer's market for public fondling.

Instead, she went for the Bee's Knee's Hunny Hut.

"Ugh," Castle murmured. "Two apostrophes."

"The horror." Kate stopped anyway, bought a honey stick from a scrawny kid wearing the name badge "Pi". She didn't check to see if Rick was peering at her sidelong, past his sunglasses, but she heard him catch his breath when she popped the honey stick's open end into her mouth, sucking gently.

He was lucky that his sunglasses concealed the heat of his gaze, and hoped the lenses wouldn't melt of their own accord. He unwrapped the bagel from the napkin, tore off a bite of bagel and offered it to her. "Goes with honey. I tried not to get any drool on it," he smirked, and she chuckled.

"Speaking of big babies..." meaning him of course. She didn't finish that thought, instead popped the sweet morsel into her mouth. "Thanks. So good."

He nodded. "There are no bagels like New York bagels," he said.

"Something in the water?"

"Something in the attitude," he shrugged.

She'd gone into another produce booth, and selected two heirloom tomatoes and a cucumber. He looked down at his feet, scuffed them on the sidewalk. "How was your summer?"

She paid the proprietor with the sweaty money out of her bra. "Quiet," she said. She took a long pull from her coffee cup. "Maybe even peaceful, not counting the brutal and heinous crime and all."

"Of course." He sounded a little disappointed. "You deserve some peace."

"Right now, what I deserve is some protein." She stood up and jerked her head toward the end of the farmer's market. "Smell that?"

She walked right past the Green Mile Organic Juice booth, and the lavender lady and the Crepe Expectations food truck, and stopped at the row's end. It wasn't even a booth, just a couple of teens with a card table, a propane camping burner, and some cookie sheets covered with sizzling sausages, peppers, and onions. These carts weren't even strictly legal or part of the farmer's market, just fly-by-night street vendors who dodged in, sold what they could, and disappeared before the health department could even show up to fine them.

Castle laughed. "I knew you liked to live dangerously, but..."

She ignored him, hot on the trail of smoking hot sausage. She had managed to slip her money out again without his seeing, and said, "If you want grilled onions, go for it. I'm buyin'." She added to the merchant, "Polish sausage. Make everything well done, okay?"

"How can I refuse?" he said. "The same for me, please."

They leaned against the wall of a women's clothing store. It was called "Eleganceé" and purveyed knockoff bags, day-glow leggings tailor-made for crack whores, and those weird little puckery, shiny shirts that people buy with the forlorn hope that One Size Fits All. They ate the sausages on warm, slightly toasted buns, slathered with soft grilled onions, sweet peppers, and spicy mustard. Rick was staring at the scantily-clad row of mannequins in the window. "Elegance indeed," he said.

Kate nodded. "I bought a few things here when I worked Vice."

He swallowed and croaked. "What kind of ... things?"

She grinned. "You know. The kind of things that make a girl feel... special."

He choked a little and she handed him the last of her coffee. "You okay there, Castle?"

"Yeah, I'm... exactly how special?"

" _Very_. Turned a few heads, I guess." She wrapped her lips around her sandwich and took a bite, gathering up a bit of loose caramelized onion that tried to slip out. "Mmm. I never eat these when I'm working."

"Why not?"

"You'll be able to smell the onions on your skin tomorrow. I have two days for this to get out of my system."

"Wow. Onion-flavored Beckett."

"Sounds like a breakfast fritatta," she chuckled.

He didn't say anything to that, just grinned as he polished off the last of his... Polish ... and thought about free tatas. And then he remembered Gina, and that tatas always come with a price, one way or another. Gina's had been about $2K apiece, and that was just the implants.

"Sometimes the English language is so weird," he mumbled.

"How so?"

"Just sorting my metaphors from my similes." They headed back down the opposite lane of the farmer's market, passing the busker who was now gently plucking out "Mood for A Day" by Yes. Rick dropped another $10 into the bedraggled black guitar case and grabbed the busker's postcard. The musician smiled and bowed slightly, the sweet, joyous melody trailing after them like butterflies after a four-year-old with a flower crown. It would be a good song for a wedding, or maybe for a baby's christening. Or for a picnic with white linens on an immense rolling greensward in Central Park. A picnic for two, plus guitarist. He'd probably put a screen between them, for privacy. In Central Park?

They came to the pink-and-purple awning of Berry Happy, run by a wordless but smiling Hmong family. The berries were gorgeous. There were blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, of course. Even gooseberries, green as grapes, sour as lemons.

"Maybe I'll make a gooseberry tart," he considered. "Ever had them?"

Kate wrinkled her nose. "Not willingly. They're like sour kiwi fruit." She gave a moment's thought to kiwi fruit, those round, fuzzy balls. She decided not to elaborate. "Ha! Did you know kiwis used to be called Cape Gooseberries?"

"No. Really?"

"Really." Kate selected a basket of raspberries, checking the bottom for mold.

Castle said, "All those geese wearing capes must have gotten a little out of hand. Anyway, they're sour, but if you make a custard tart on a shortbread crust, they offset the acidity or... hm. Maybe a Pavlova. All crisp and hard and delicate on the outside, whipped cream and gooseberries inside... they have little hard round seeds you can roll around on your tongue..."

"Castle, I know you're obsessed with putting things in your mouth, but how much can you possibly eat in one day?"

He stopped, slipped his sunglasses up to pull the flopping hair back from his forehead, and fixed clear blue eyes on her. "I try to appreciate every bite I take," he said mildly. Then his face darkened, a little shadow of longing, and his voice was weary. "You ever go hungry, Kate?"

•••  
 **End Chapter 2**

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I hope you are all enjoying the fluffy goodness. I needed a break from the sad stuff.  
xo


	3. HBSB ch3: Honey Baked Everything

_I think that due to language and (HA!) mature themes (also more puns) I will change this up to a mild M rating.  
It's really nothing more than you'd encounter on an average urban sidewalk, but (I clutch my pearls) think of the children!_

* * *

 **Castle Fanfic: He Bought, She Bought Chapter 3  
Honey-Baked Everything  
**

"Hungry?" Kate stared at him in confusion, and finally said, "Literally or figuratively?"

He didn't glance down at her figure. Really he didn't. And in a way, he seemed not to be quite looking at her, but at a memory, his gaze very slightly unfocused. "Oh, we all know you hunger for justice, you eat that for breakfast every day. I mean literally."

"No," she said slowly. "I mean there were a couple of times I cut back a little to get into a dress or something." Like that size 0 dress she'd worn during that modeling gig. But she wasn't about to bring that up.

"I can't imagine your being in better shape," Rick said.

Kate ducked her head shyly. "I had a couple of anorectic friends. It really messed them up, and it just... they couldn't eat. It was scary. Sometimes if I'm in a bad mood I forget, but taking it to that level? It didn't make sense to me. I love food. I just hate cooking for myself."

Castle nodded. "Sometimes I forget to eat when I'm writing." He patted his just-very-slightly-soft tummy affectionately. "We try to make up for lost time."

Kate added, "On the other hand, I also gained a Freshman Twenty."

"Don't tell me. Mac and cheese? Tater tots?"

"Pierogis. In Kiev." Kate rolled her eyes. "People kept feeding me because they were afraid I'd freeze to death."

Rick chuckled, completely understanding their point of view. "So you've always been able to afford the basics."

Kate nodded, starting to see where this was going. "By the time I was born, my folks had already paid off their student loans. They struggled so I wouldn't have to." Yeah, that had worked out really well.

"Best laid plans," said Castle gently.

She didn't answer. She went into the "Puff Where We Belong" bakery booth. "Ooh. Cornish pasties," she smiled. "My dad's stepmother used to make those once in a while."

"Yum," Rick said. That was all it took; he ordered six, and they were nestled safely in his cart with little fanfare.

"And an apple pie," he added.

They had several kinds. He picked one with a solid top crust, and a little piehole in the center, and that too was stashed away, in the second section from the top, which he easily zipped open and closed.

"Do you have any more room in that thing?" Kate said.

"It's bigger on the inside," he grinned. "But even the Utility Cart of the Gods has its limits."

They stepped into the flower stall, and Rick selected a bundle of fuzzy sunflowers, held together with a stout rubber band. "Aren't these great? They really do look sort of like teddy bears."

"For Gina?" _Can we fish a little more obviously for information, Kate?_ She wanted to kick herself.

"No, for Alexis. She had a little summer romance, it's over. She was feeling a bit blue. Thought they'd cheer her up." He didn't glance at Kate, and there was a certain grimness about his jaw as he paid for the flowers. Kate waited quietly, hoping she wouldn't have to ask.

He sniffed at the sunflowers. "These are pretty, but I always forget how weird they smell." He paid for the flowers, and the salesgirl wrapped their long stems in a cone of clear plastic, then handed them back to him. "Gina and I are still at the Hamptons, more or less. I just took the weekend off." He sounded a little grim. She got the impression he wasn't being entirely truthful.

"You took the weekend off from vacation?"

He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it, and as usual it reassembled itself into perfection without his even trying, dammit. "It's no _vacation_ ," he almost snapped. "She... okay, it's a working vacation. Just like every other vacation we've ever taken. She's relentless."

Kate's bruised little heart sang like a bird. _Shut up, heart. You're a canary in a coal mine._ She said, "A wise man once told me that if you do what you love, you'll never work a day in your life."

"That wise man never revised a story fourteen times in two weeks and still hated it," Rick said.

Kate found herself blinking rapidly. "Hated it?" she said in a small voice.

"Yeah. I tried... okay, I tried to take a break from Nikki. It just..." He looked guilty, like someone confessing to having an affair, then he swallowed, then he sighed. "I've always wanted to write a pirate novel, but aside from 'Thar she blows!' I got nothin'."

"Maybe you need to write a sequel to Moby Dick instead," Kate said. "May I?" She took the flowers from him.

He pushed the cart out of the flower stall.

Kate said, "Do you need avocados?"

"Avo – no." He chuckled.

"Are you sure? You're gonna have a house full of writers, you have those limes from Manuela ... it's the law, Castle. Don't make me call the guacamole police on you."

She went up to the avocado table in the next stall, handed the sunflowers back to him, and selected a plump, black avocado, its skin still glossy, and hefted it in her hand, very gently.

He said, "Avocado. Comes from the Aztec word _'_ _ahuácatl_ ' meaning testicle."

The woman behind the counter rolled her eyes and cursed. "Jesus Christ, if I hear ONE MORE SMARTASS MAN say that, I swear I will..."

"We'll take two and call them alligator pears," interrupted Kate, picked up the original fruit and another as well. She'd spent all her remaining money on the sausages and a tip. She stood there, not sure if he was going to go for it, holding the two small, heavy fruits in her palms, which were suddenly feeling a little sweaty.

"We'll take four," he corrected, and flashed the angry cashier a charming grin that had absolutely no effect on her cold, withered heart.

"One-twenty-five each," she snapped. "Five for five-fifty."

"Sold." He grabbed a head of garlic, a jalapeno, a red onion, and a bunch of cilantro for good measure. She bagged everything, and the future guacamole went into the cart. "No, thanks. I have chips at home."

They left that booth with all due speed. Kate was giggling. Rick was definitely flustered. She said, "I guess some people don't appreciate cunning linguistics."

Now it was Rick's turn to stop and stare, his mouth half open on its way to an astonished smile. "Why, Detective Beckett, I never..."

"Oh, yes you do," she laughed. She dodged around a stroller. It was nearly 9:30 now, and parents had dragged their young children out of the house for their weekly farmer's market visit before the heat of the day could kick in. She said, "Looks like the Baby Tide is rolling in. Time for me to bail."

"Just a couple more things?" He tried to keep pleading out of his voice. "And then we can get a cronut. For the road."

"For the road," Beckett agreed.

They stopped in to an upstate 4H booth, "Henrietta's Bacon and Eggs" to buy a dozen eggs. The booth was run by a 4H mommy and her flock of little 4H girls in green vests. There were handmade posters, and an iPad with a state-of-the-art video about _The Story Of Henrietta's Farm._ The multicolored eggs were laid by a diverse flock of chickens who clucked about in a grassy pasture, lived on seeds, weeds, and bugs, and were cuddled daily then tucked by 4H schoolgirls into their state-of-the-art raccoon-proof coop, where they listened to cool jazz and ate cornmeal and oyster shells for dessert before they dreamed sweet dreams of tropical islands and all the snails they could eat. Well, now, that was a long sentence but it ended nicely. The booth also sold homemade chicken stock, but there were no videos of slaughter and rendering. Some sentences are shorter and have a less happy outcome.

"Ten Dollars a DOZEN?" Kate squeaked.

"Happy chickens, hand-raised by beautiful children? Priceless," Rick said.

Kate looked at the frozen, celery-juice-cured cold-smoked bacon and sausages and honey-baked ham displayed on ice. "At $20 a pound, I don't even wanna know what they do to the pigs," she snickered.

Castle speculated with a dreamy smile. "A steady diet of organic produce, hot oil massages, buttermilk facials, and rosemary aromatherapy steam rooms. Also, leftover chicken."

The only thought that took hold in Kate's distracted mind was was _"Honey Baked Castle"._ She hadn't gotten high since the night of her high school graduation, although she had taken an occasional puff - reluctantly - when undercover for Vice. She figured Castle still got baked occasionally, then she had the most peculiar thought regarding a basting brush. She started to reach for a packet of handmade, English-style bangers...

A few booths down, they heard a woman scream, and yell, "Stop! My purse!"

There was a bustle and a crash, and a young man who had no business carrying a Prada knockoff handbag came barreling through the crowd toward them, knocking over tables and trays of produce and goods. Artisanal baked goods flew, and apples rolled around like heads in the French Revolution.

Kate cast around for a weapon, settled on her produce bag, and ran out of the booth yelling "NYPD! Stop! Police!"


	4. HBSB ch4: Nuts and Bolts

_If anyone is curious about 4H, it's a youth program, 4H standing for_

• **Head** \- Managing, Thinking • **Heart** \- Relating, Caring • **Hands** \- Giving, Working • **Health** \- Being, Living

I think it's a safe bet that Clarice and Donald, whom we are about to meet, were never members.

 _While we're on the subject of important things and the never-ending battle of good versus evil,_ _nag everyone you know in the USA to vote their conscience in the primaries, whatever that might mean to them. It's none of my business how they vote, but... let's just say that Senator Bracken isn't the most evil politician out there, and they're **not** all the same. So be a hero: get out the vote!  
_

* * *

 **He Bought, She Bought: Chapter 4**  
 **Nuts and Bolts**

Rick set his eggs down carefully and spoke quickly but calmly to the 4H mom, "Get down behind the table. If anyone messes with you, go for the eyes, the crotch and the knees." The mom and her three little farmers in green vests cowered down behind the table, the youngest whimpering in fear.

Shoppers and strollers careened in all directions, clearing a path for the purse-snatcher. Beckett dropped Alexis' sunflowers to the ground, swung out and clipped the young thief with her bag of family jewels. He tipped over a table of olives and oil, which smashed into Beckett's thigh and knocked her down. He kept going, intending to cut through to the park between the avocado booth and the egg booth. He staggered toward Castle at an angle, with no inkling that Castle and Beckett had worked together before. With a flick of his wrist, Rick tipped his cart on its back wheels and popped it forward, into the path of said Young Man With Faux Prada. The cart skidded out into the walkway between the booths and slammed onto its back rails with a loud, metallic clatter. The suspect's shins barked against the cart's frame, and he went flying over it and landed with...

(Yes. I'm sorry. It's just what happened, okay?)

… egg all over his face, cursing and swearing. He struggled around, trying to get back up.

Kate said, "NYPD. I think you've upset your last apple cart, Buster."

Castle grabbed a demolished teddy bear sunflower and poked the tough, 1" diameter stem between their prisoner's shoulder blades to hold him firmly down. It must have felt quite a lot like the muzzle of a gun, because he stopped struggling.

Kate called out to the crowd. "Anyone have a zip tie or some gaff tape?"

About five different boothies offered them up, and she settled on a fat black zip-tie which she then reinforced by winding tape around the young man's wrists. "What's your name, sir?"

"Smith."

"Uh-huh. What's your real name?"

"Dumpher. Donald Dumpher. Hey, you ain't a cop."

Castle and Beckett helped Dumpher to his feet. He swayed a little, a jerky metronome on his own imaginary sea.

"Oh, but I am. Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD, and you have just officially ruined an extremely nice morning off with my best friend, so do _not_ mess around." She reeled off his Miranda rights while he stood sulking, and they heard sirens approaching fast.

The berry lady said, "We called 911." She still had her phone out, and started recording Kate's altercation with Dumpher.

Rick spotted the faux Prada purse, and chuckled. "Prada goeth before a faux." *  
(this is a pun. if you don't understand it, that's ok, it's kind of obscure, also awful. feel free to ask me or throw eggs at me.)

The cheap vinyl purse had opened up and torn partially open. When he lifted it off the ground, it spilled out makeup, loose cash, tampons, hairpins, a bag of Nutter Butter Minis, a sparkly pink wallet, a bottle of black nail polish, an acrylic mirror, a phone, a note pad, some tissues (used and new), several condoms (thankfully still in the wrapper), a wad of rubber gloves, a vibrator, something that might have been a cat toy (he hoped), a pair of pink lace underwear, several pairs of cheap earrings, a packet of cigarettes, a lighter, and a single walnut, in the shell, that rolled away under a box before he noticed it. Rick was loath to touch any of it, but then he glanced over at the three little 4H girls staring curiously at the contents of an adult's messy personal life all over the sidewalk.

Now you're gonna go clean out your purse, aren't you?

Beckett arched an eyebrow at him. "Really, Castle?"

"I- it- they- he- oh, dear." Rick didn't want to say anything rude in front of the little girls. The olive guy handed Rick a pair of clean metal tongs. He squatted down, absorbed with trying to corral the spillage as the purse's owner came trotting up. Rick looked up at eye level with a pair of legs even longer than Beckett's, but shaped more like a crane's, and like a crane's, her eyes were a dull and baleful red. The woman was skinny, wore a long, straight blue wig, and curled down to look at him like a heron about to spear a salamander.

"What the hell you doin' with my purse?" she snapped.

"I was just..." he arose stiffly, favoring an old fencing injury to his knee. He handed her the purse, and the tongs. He'd already put away the more embarrassing items. He smiled nervously. "Here you go."

The woman snatched it away with neon-green taloned hands, peered into it, looked down at the rest of her things splayed on the ground, then looked back into her purse, then looked at the ground again.

"Where's my walnut?"

"Wa – what?"

"The walnut. Where's my walnut."

"I, uh, did you see a walnut, Beckett?"

"No, I didn't see a..."

"Well, who the hell are you people? And where the fuck is my fuckin' goddamn walnut?"

Behind the egg table, Rick heard a little girl say, "Mommy, she said a bad word."

Kate said calmly, "I'm with the NYPD, Ma'am. This man stole your purse, right?"

The woman stalked forward and shoved at the suspect with clawed hands. "Hey, Donald. Where the hell my walnut at, you shifferbrains?"

The man seemed to know more about the walnut than one might have assumed. He said, "I don't know where the fuck your fuckin' nuts are at, maybe you should check your..."

The 4H lady gathered her wits. "All right, girls, I want you in the car. Now."

"Mommy, is that lady a prostitute?"

"NOW!" screamed 4H Mommy. She herded the little girls away, each of them clutching a carton of eggs and Mommy with the cash box and laptop.

The crowd around them roared with laughter, and Beckett suddenly became aware they were surrounded by concerned citizens with cam phones, recording the whole damn messy business. It was easy for the bystanders to laugh, now that the danger had been sorted out. Aside from the mess and damage, things seemed to be somewhat in control. Then Kate looked down at herself and realized that at least 80% of her body was coated with artisanal olive oil and balsamic vinegar. She had a minor scrape on the heel of her hand, and a bruise the size of a New York steak starting to bloom on her outer left thigh.

Kate ignored the hecklers and spoke quietly to the woman in the purple wig. "My name's Detective Kate Beckett. I'm with NYPD, so this is technically a citizen's arrest since I don't have my badge. For your safety, I'll stay with you until officers arrive. What's your name?"

"Clarice Sterling."

Castle snorted. " _Really?_ "

"That's my stage name. Everybody calls me that," the woman simpered.

Kate indicated her suspect. "You know Mr. Dumpher?"

"Hell, yeah, I know him. Stupid fuckhead." Clarice punched Donald in the solar plexus before Kate could stop her.

Donald grunted and wheezed. "Damn, woman!"

Beckett handed Donald off to Rick, who pulled him out of Clarice's reach. Beckett stepped between the two combatants and looked from one to the other. "This suddenly doesn't seem like a random stolen nut-sack. Nut. Purse."

Ohfuckohfuckohfuck, that was on at least five cameras.

Someone in the crowd whooped, "You got that right, lady, it's more like an oil-wrestling match!"

Castle was somewhat in shock from all the adrenaline, but he filed that one away for further opportunities to tease Beckett.

"I seen him around," Clarice said. She was now bending over from the hips, her skinny ass way up in the air, reaching down past her golden vinyl spike-heel pumps to collect the rest of her dropped things. Castle thanked every god in every heaven that she was wearing panties with reasonably good coverage under her striped knit skirt. He averted his eyes and stared at Beckett, completely lost as to what he could do to help. He just knew he never wanted to see Clarice's bum again.

Kate continued sorting out the story. "Was this a random theft, or was there something particular in there that you wanted?" She indicated the purse, which was coming apart at the seams.

"Nutter butters," grumbled Donald. "They give 'em out at the Red Cross when you donate plasma."

"Where my walnut at, then, you – ya fuckin' walnut thief?"

"I told, you, I don' know, you fuckin' crazy bitch."

A couple of uniforms were approaching through the crowd, radios squawking, elbows out, announcing the standard "Move along, folks, nothin' more ta see."

Kate's heart sank. They were from the 14th district, she was well-acquainted, and they were a couple of ass-grabbing sexist pigs. Cuthbert and Hodgkins, here to save the day. She'd been promoted ahead of them _'just because she's a pretty little girl'_ , and suffered plenty because of it. They puffed their way through the crowd like animated barn doors. They were both different colors but more or less interchangeable, since they were about the same size and shape, had the same nasty, pompous personality, and ate the same amount of doughnuts every day. Hodgkins had powdered sugar on his mustache. That was really the biggest difference. They looked like a pair of power-hungry refrigerators.

Hodgkins looked Kate up and down and leered, "Beckett."

"Hodgkins. Cuthbert. Nice of you to wander by."

Cuthbert smirked, "I see you're still workin' Vice. Cute leggings."

"Well," said Hodgkins, "You can take the woman out of vice, but you can't take the Vice out of the woman." The two cops snickered.

Castle's face went red with anger, his fists opening and closing. "Hey, now, that's uncalled for."

Beckett glanced over at Castle and was suddenly, for a bare moment, afraid for him. This might go very badly, if you count _"punching an officer"_ as _"badly"_ , and she did. She gave Rick the barest shake of her head, and kept her demeanor chipper. "Nope. "Just grocery shopping. Hoping for some nice crime to fight, got lucky."

Cuthbert smirked, "You call that lucky?"

"I didn't say what _kind_ of luck it was, I just said it was _there_ ," Kate amended. "Now, this woman is looking for her lost nut, and that man stole her bag. Can you deal?"

"Yeahhh..." Hodgkins said. He was a big, meaty fellow. "Come on, Donny, time to go back to jail. We missed ya down at the precinct."

Kate said, "Mr. Castle, please release Mr. Dumpher to Officer Hodgkins." Castle gave Dumpher just the slightest shove, Hodgkins gave Dumpher a spin, and Hodgkins laughed with reluctant admiration at Kate's makeshift cuffs. "Hell, let's just take this off him when we get back to the station, he's not goin' nowhere."

Castle bent to upright his toppled cart. It had taken a hard fall, but it was titanium alloy and he could probably have built the Pyramid at Giza with it, over the course of 600 years or so. He should live that long. He hunkered down to clean up the fallen pot of chives and tamped the dirt down quite tenderly, placing the pot back in the cart's cup holder.

Kate said, "It was the best I could do under the circumstances."

Cuthbert drawled, "Well, it's not like you're wearin' any pockets, Dee-tec-tivvvve."

Kate's stomach lurched with adrenaline and anger.

"Excuse me, do you know there are consequences for disrespecting a superior officer?" Castle said pleasantly.

"What's it to ya?" said Cuthbert, who hadn't read a book since he graduated from police academy in 1996, and clearly had no idea that Kate hung out with a deceptively scruffy mystery author-cum-playboy-cum-millionaire. Cuthbert had a sort of looming quality, even though he wasn't much over 6'4".

Beckett said, "Castle, stay out of it."

"Oh, I'm not anywhere near it. Just curious." Still on his haunches, he moved somewhat sideways, like a crab, rummaged between two plastic storage bins under the egg table, pried out something small, and produced a walnut. He stood up, and Clarice whooped, "YEAH!"

"What the hell," said Cuthbert.

Clarice clomped forward in her platforms and took the walnut from Castle. "Oh, you the sweetest thing." She went in for a hug.

Rick put out a staying hand, his eyes closed, then let out an enormous sneeze, then another. It nearly doubled him over. "Eh- Sorry Clarice! - CHOO! Ch- CHOO!"

She reached into her purse and pulled out a crumpled, filthy tissue. "You wanna kleenex, Honey?"

"CHOO! Oh. No thanks. So sorrreeyCHOO!" He backed away. "I think it's your perfume."

"I ain't wearin' any..."

"Maybe hairspraCHOOO!"

Kate said, "Castle, you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm... ah. I'm.. ACHOO!"

The crowd was getting bored with this. Sneezing isn't actually that interesting unless you're the one doing it, or you're in a Woody Allen movie, and even though Castle had a surprisingly cute little sneeze for such a big man, he was just a guy. Sneezing.

The merchants moved on to cleaning up, the shoppers went back to shopping, and since it looked like there wasn't gonna be any entertaining police brutality, all the phones got put away.

Cuthbert said, "Let me take a look at that walnut."

Clarice put the walnut down her bra. "What walnut?"

Cuthbert rolled his eyes and said, "Ma'am, please produce the walnut."

"I don't see no walnut," said Clarice.

Beckett said, "Well, it's my day off, and you can see I'm not dressed for this, so I'll get out of the way and let the Fighting Fourteenth do its job. I'll email you a statement later today."

"Beckett, can you frisk her?" said Hodgkins.

"Sorry. Not my precinct. I was just holding down the fort till the real cops arrived." She did a graceful bunny dip and reached for Castle's handle. The handle of his shopping cart. Oh, there it was. _Oopsie._

She started wheeling the cart away, back toward the general direction of the farmer's market entry near Manuela's produce stand. Castle grabbed his dozen brown eggs, which had escaped mayhem, and hurried to follow Beckett. He sidled past Clarice, who was still being questioned, and she shot out a claw to him. "See you, Honey!" she whined with her most ingratiating smile, grasping his arm, and he flinched back abruptly with another sneeze. There was a sickening wet crunch, and the carton collapsed in on itself, disgorging its sticky contents all over his side and down his leg. There are almost three ounces of liquid in a jumbo egg. Do the math.

Castle stood there a bare second, silent, his jaw working, and Beckett said, "Good thing we're having huevos rancheros for brunch." She hauled him away by the arm, divested him of the smashed carton, tossed it in a convenient trash container, and gritted into his ear, "Keep. Walking."

"Good idea," he whispered, and added, "Hide your chest.""Why?"

"Oil. Not a lot to the imagination."

He looped an arm through hers and she crossed her arm across her oiled sports bra/tank to conceal it. As they walked back down the farmer's market, people whistled and applauded them.

"Nice job!"

"Hey, lady, you a badass!"

They felt like a two-person walk of shame, without the sex. "By the way, bless you," she murmured.

"Just doing my duty as a citizen."

"No I mean about the sneezing."

"Oh." He winced, shamefaced. "Those weren't real sneezes. She was just kind of scary. I thought it would look stupid if I actually ran away."

"That's never stopped you before." It actually had, and she knew it. He was braver than he thought he was.

"I'm trying to turn over a new leaf. Hey, do you think anyone recognized me?"

Kate shook her head. "Nah. That little pirate beard would throw anyone off."

"I love pirates! You think I look like a pirate?"

She snickered. "I had you pegged on that one from way back, ya scurvy dog."

"Pegged," he snorted. _Wait, pegged? Ohgod._ To distract himself from that very peculiar notion, he said, "Hey, nice melons!"

She dropped his arm with a scowl. "Really?"

"What?" He pointed to a bright-red awning with black seeds painted on it and a green sign, 'Nice Melons.' He hurried to a booth she'd missed earlier. "Melons. Cantaloupe, watermelon, casaba, canary," He picked up two celadon-green, smooth melons in his large hands and hefted them against his chest. "Honeydew you like these?"

She smacked his arm and scoffed, chuckling. "Love them, I hate you. Groping at melons in public."

"I hate you too," he said fondly. "Just the right amount of give," he added, squeezing the melons very gently. He looked over at the proprietor. "Hey, Mike. Good to see you."

"Ricky, what the hell, where you been?"

Rick rolled his eyes. "Working."

"Ha. You call that workin'." He glanced at Kate, and left a question unasked.

"This is my friend, Kate Beckett," Rick said. "Kate, Mike and I worked together a while."

"Really?" Kate said. "You're a writer?"

"No, Ma'am. Washin' dishes at Pizza Roma. He bussed tables. Told me stories. Every time he came back with a bus tub I got another piece. Hey, Rick, remember that one you made up about the girl with three..."

Castle interrupted. "Two for four bucks?" He juggled one melon into his elbow where it nestled happily against his bicep, and reached back for his wallet. "And two T-shirts, one women's medium, one men's XL."

The proprietor waved Castle's money off. "They're yours. That was the best takedown I seen in years."

"Oh, no, we can't..." said Beckett. The proprietor said, "By the way, you kinda could use this." He handed her a bright red tee shirt printed with a scatter of egg-shaped black seeds, and his green-and-white logo across the chest. _"Nice Melons."_

Kate said, "No really, I..."

The proprietor said in a kindly-meant way, "Look, sweetie, that oil soaked right through your shirt, and I woun't let my daughter outta the house givin' a free show like that, you know?"

Kate looked down at her chest, her face flaming with embarrassment. "Oh, no." Fortunately her sports bra was lined with thin foam pads, but otherwise, she was could have placed at least second in a wet Tshirt contest. "Okay. Thank you. Very much."

She hastily donned the shirt. Castle handed her the melons and peeled off his own egg-laden mess of a shirt. There was another wolf whistle somewhere in the distance.

Clearly he'd spent some time at the Hamptons swimming. Maybe surfing. He looked like a goddamn bronzed god, not hard and ripped as Demming had been, but solid and powerful all the same. Almost buff. She realized suddenly that her imagination had absolutely nothing on the real thing. Kate found herself squeezing her honeydews very tightly indeed.

Castle wadded his eggy shirt into a plastic bag, and Mike handed him a paper towel to wipe the sticky fluid and bits of shell off his side and shorts. The proprietor laughed at Kate's expression as Castle popped the clean red shirt over his head. "You look like you ain't never seen it before."

"Well, I haven't," Kate snapped, rather harshly.

"You have now, Beckett," Castle chirped, with the shirt obscuring his head. He had it on backwards, and was scootching it around, trying to get one massive arm through what was turning out to be the wrong hole.

"Oh. Okay then," said the melon man. Rick heard him mumble, "Coulda fooled me."

Kate squatted down by Castle's cart at his hip, fiddling with the zippers on the Cordura baskets, trying to figure out which one had room to hold the two melons. When Castle had his shirt all settled, he looked down to find Kate's head pretty much on a level with his groin, and he realized he'd never quite seen her from that angle before, but it certainly was pleasant.

His voice was a little gruffer than he'd intended it to be. "Feel around the bottom."

"What?"

"The bottom. I think there's an empty space in there somewhere. For the melons."

"Oh." Kate opened up the bottom basket and hastily shoved the melons inside. They threatened to roll back out again as she tried to close it. She felt like an idiot, her patience worn thin by what she'd intended to be a peaceful and uneventful day. "Fuck. It's a little tight."

Castle hunkered down beside her.

"Here, I'll hold them steady while you zip it up."

Mike said, "'Scuse me, I got a call." He didn't. But he had to turn his back and press his hand over his mouth, tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks, pretending to check his phone just so he didn't have to look at them anymore.

"Okay, then, Mike. We're off. I'll see you soon."

"Yeah, yeah," Mike waved them off. "We'll have a beer."

They stopped in briefly at Manuela's booth again, close to where they'd started out at the market. She took one look at them and laughed quietly. The baby was asleep with his head on her damp shoulder. "Oh, now you're wearing matching shirts?"

"It's not like that," they both said.

She giggled. "Next week you'll both be wearing Dockers and topsiders, and little matching golf hats..."

Kate rubbed her eyes. "Honestly, I don't know if I can ever show my face in Soho again."

Castle said, "Your face is fine, but..." he stopped.

"But what, Castle?" Kate gritted.

"Well, uh." He was trying not to look her up and down. She was a mess. He was a mess, too, but the fact that she was a mess was much more important to her. No way Gina Griffin Cowell would wind up covered in oil and wearing a watermelon T-shirt.

Manuela looked at them cautiously, suddenly unsure if this was friendly banter or the beginning of a real argument.

He squeaked, "The rest of you is fine, too? That did not come out right."

Kate gave Manuela a brief, tight smile. "It was really nice to see you again. And the baby. Say hi to Frank for me."

"Okay, Kate. Thanks for coming in! Don't be a stranger."

Kate smiled at Manuela, more sincerely this time, turned and walked away without so much as a glance at Rick.

Manuela made a face. "What the hell was that about?"

Rick sighed, watching her angry strides receding down the sidewalk. "I'm surprised she took so long to bolt."


	5. HBSB ch 5: The Big Pink Box

**CHAPTER 5 - The Big Pink Box  
**

Rick hesitated. Should he even go after Kate, or let her cool off? They'd spent an entire summer cooling off, and it had just left him feeling … out in the cold. He hated to leave things hanging, and what had she said? "...you have just officially ruined an extremely nice morning off with my _best friend_ ".

 _With me?_

It had stricken him, but there'd been too much going on. Was that it? Was he permanently friend-zoned and he'd been, again, misreading every cue she'd given him? For someone who seemed so plain-spoken, it was really a pain to figure out what she meant sometimes. Rick kept his eyes on Kate's retreating figure, noticing too late that she had two oily handprints on her butt, most likely where she'd wiped them off after falling. If they were Cuthbert's, he'd go back and murder the man and gladly spend life in prison.

He said to Manuela, "Mind if I leave this cart with you for a little bit?"

Manuela shrugged. "I'll put it in back of the truck. We'll be out of here by 1:30, though."

"If I'm not back, you can keep the whole thing, and enjoy the pie." He took off running after Beckett, but didn't call after her, partially because he didn't want to reveal how desperate he felt, and partially because he rather enjoyed watching her when she didn't think she was being observed. (In some circles this is known as 'spying', but he wouldn't have revealed any real secrets if someone put a bag of tarantulas over his head and threatened to let them eat him.) (He hoped that would never be put to the test, but life is uncertain.)

"Ick." He shook that mental image off and kept running, only to glimpse her unmistakeable form in its horrific watermelon shirt when she dodged into a shop with a pink sign. He paused a moment, surprised. "Huh. The cronut store?"

He followed her in quietly. She was standing at the counter. "But, don't you have even one left over? It's kind of important."

The lady behind the counter said, "No, ma'am. We usually sell out of the cronuts by 9:30 on a Saturday. And that's with a four-per-person limit."

Rick noticed that Kate's leggings were pretty much splattered with oil, her calf had a bloody scrape, and oil was soaking through her new watermelon T-shirt, too. The clerk glanced up at Rick. "Oh, is this your husband?"

Kate turned to him and snapped, "Would you stop sneaking up on me like that?"

"I wasn't sneaking," he insisted. "I just didn't want to..." he gestured helplessly. _Let you get away._ "You have handprints on your rear end, Kate, and I thought I was supposed to have your back."

Kate rolled her eyes. "Great. Just great, Castle." She spoke to the clerk. "Any chance I can use the restroom?"

The clerk handed her the key, swinging from a thick wooden dowel. It looked rather like a nunchuck.

" _With only one dowel, is it_ _a nun, or a chuck?"_ He wondered, and set the thought aside for later.

Kate stalked into the side hallway, the door too heavy to slam behind her.

Rick spoke to the server. "So you still have the hand-filled donuts?" They looked like little square or oblong pillows.

"Oh, yeah. They're good. In my opinion, better. The cronuts are a bit heavy for my taste. Hey, didn' you come in earlier..."

"Great! Donuts it is. And two house coffees." He ordered a baker's dozen of donuts, all with organic natural ingredients, fried in rice bran oil, some of them still warm from the late-morning batch. She filled the donuts to his order, some with jam, some with jelly, some with custard, some with soft dark-chocolate raspberry ganache, some with natural maple cream. There was even a savory donut, a lot like a Chinese barbecue bun. He asked for one of those in addition.

He was sitting at the table with two plates, a large pink box, two glasses of water, and two stoneware mugs of steaming coffee when she emerged from the bathroom.

"Thanks, but..." she stopped. The utensils were 'for here'. "Look, I need to get going. I do have a life, you know."

He nodded gently. "I know. Just... just give me one minute, all right? Sit down." There was too long a pause. "Please?"

She sat reluctantly. He took a sip of water, and she unconsciously did the same. He looked really upset, busying his hands by pouring cream and sugar into their coffees, playing barista even though it was totally unnecessary. She let him, noticing a slight shake in his hands.

"Do you think of me like those cops?" he said quietly.

"What do you mean?" She took the cup. It was comforting and warm between her hands.

"I took a little video while they were taking on the suspects. I just watched it while you were cleaning up. They were..." he shook his head. "Do you see me like that? Disrespectful, looking at you like a piece of meat? Undermining your authority just because I can?"

"Castle, where is this coming from?"

He rubbed his eyes, looking truly contrite. "I'm _so_ sorry. I never meant to harass you, Kate. But maybe you don't see it that way. Maybe I'm just an utter, privileged, oblivious asshole who has no more right to be anywhere near you than they do. _Less_ right. I'm too old even to apply for a badge now, mayor or no mayor." He put his hand over his eyes, the picture of contrition. "Then I buy you a melon T-shirt and try to ply your forgiveness with coffee and donuts." He grimaced. "What a putz."

Kate sat back and took a sip of her water, watching him. She didn't address the apology. "You checked that out, did you? Applying for a badge."

He didn't look at her, but his face went pink. "For research."

"Mmhm. So, Castle, I have to ask a question."

"Ask me anything. We could do a Skype session. Play twenty questions..."

"Castle."

"Sorry."

"Did you use me to get an in with NYPD, or did you use NYPD to get an in with me?"

He could barely look at her, and he was afraid to answer the question. "Both?"

"Mhm." She took another sip of coffee, which was just bitter enough to make her crave the tooth-edge sweetness of a donut, and opened the pink box's lid. She cleared her throat. "Well, I'm glad you did, because it's greatly improved not only my team's solve rate but the quality of my donut consumption. The ones where they use the same fryer as the fish-and-chips? Gross." She added, "Ooh, is that a maple bar?"

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Organic grade B syrup-infused custard inside."

She took it out and put it on her plate. She said, "You might want to go wash your hands before you touch the donuts. God knows what Clarice Sterling had in her purse."

He looked down at his hands, then stood up. "Will you be here when I come back out?"

She nodded. "Yes. But the maple bar will be ancient history." He went and got the nunchuck, used the facilities (no ninjas, he checked the hallway), and when he came back, he found she'd lied. Half the maple bar was on his plate, and Kate was still there, her cup half full of coffee and half full of air.

He sat down and said, "About Clarice's purse. The wal-"

They said it at the same time. "The walnut."

She finished, "I know, right? You suppose it's drugs?"

"I don't know. It was a little heavier than I might have expected, come to think about it."

"Did it rattle?"

"No, but it might have been padded. Her nails were green, but the polish in her purse was black. I bet she used the black nail polish like SuperGlue to sheal the sell shut. Sheal... Seal the shell sut. Shut." He gritted his teeth. _Shit._

"That happens when you're tired," she observed.

"What?"

"Well, your jaw's a little crooked. Your Sh and your Ss get mixed up a little. Maybe a little whistle or somethin'." She smiled, obviously thinking it was cute.

His face took on a pinched look.

"I had shome shpeech therapy when I was a kid."

She'd actually managed to embarrass him, then. _Oops_. She nodded respect. "It worked. I don't think most people notice."

"I still have to work at it sometimes."

"You speak beautifully in public," she smiled gently. She took a bite of her half of the maple bar. " _O, Canada!_ " she sang softly. That's the only part of the song most Americans know. She hummed a little of the melody while she chewed. "Wow." She licked a little maple custard off her lip.

"Yeah, right?" He took a bite. "Amazing. But no need to question your national loyalties, the syrup's from Vermont."

She took another sip of her coffee then set it down and gazed into her cup as if it held some psychic roadmap of her future. "It's not just the donuts, Castle. Not even the perfect lattes, or the bear claws. Not even the Chinese food."

"No?"

"Anyone can deliver Chinese food."

He thought about Demming. "Hey, how's Tom, speaking of hand-delivered chow fun?"

She went for a sip of water this time. "He seems fine. But we broke up, if that's what you're asking."

"Oh. When?"

She hesitated. "Late spring."

"Wow, I'm... sorry?"

She smirked a little, lifting her left hand to push a lock of balsamic-and-vinegar oiled hair behind her ear. "You don't look sorry."

He noticed her watch. "Oh, hell. I gotta go. It's ten a.m., and I have a panful of brioche that need to be..." he mimed some sort of complex dough-manipulation technique that made her want to drag him home, knead him and watch him rise. He downed his coffee.

To his surprise, she stood up too, drank some of her water, and picked up the donut box. "Where's your cart?"

"Back at Manuela's."

"You run get it. I'll grab us a taxi."

He lit up like the inside of a tanning booth, and the warmth and light bathed her in joy. Then he was gone, running the two blocks back to the farmer's market.

Kate caught a taxi and had the driver pick Rick up at the near end of the farmer's market. Together they wrestled the cart into the trunk (no small feat, it was fully loaded and weighed close to 70 lbs.) and they rode the few blocks toward the loft. At close quarters, they both wrinkled their noses. The cab driver glared back at them and the electric windows rolled down.

"Is that us?" Kate whispered

"Between us, we smell like a Caesar salad."

"I'm so glad there wasn't an anchovies-and-parmesan booth."

Rick chuckled. He paused. "Hey, why don't you come up. I'm way behind on my preparations, you can take a shower and then help me catch up in the kitchen."

She wanted to play it cool. She wanted to make noises about the other things she had to do that day, the watering of plants (and contemplation of her mother's murder-board) and the immediate, humiliating, desperate need to wash her hair. But in truth, she didn't want to leave him. And it's not like anything was going to _happen._ Nothing ever happened _between_ them, aside from all the stuff that happened _to_ them. And they were back in the same old holding pattern of flirting and obfuscation.

He pulled the puppy-dog eyes move on her, a look that had brought strong women to their knees. Literally... "Please, Beckett? I need your help." And then he made his chin quiver, just the hint of approaching crocodile tears.

She gave him the Eyeroll.

 _Win_.

•


	6. HBSB ch 6: AU

**Chapter 6**

 _For some mysterious reason, the italics and bold face were not working in this chapter. I guess ffnet is just being capricious because it **seems** to be fixed, but who knows? I'm not font of situations of this type._

* * *

 **He Bought, She Bought: Chapter 6**  
 **A is for Alternative, U is for... Uh-oh!**

 _We had a nearly UNANIMOUS vote for AU hotness with only 2 dissenting. I suspect that more than buns will be served up piping hot today. Please be over 18 if you intend to continue reading this. I'm too lazy to send out .pdfs to everyone who's followed this story._

Enjoy the fluff. We've all earned it.

* * *

They passed the doorman on their way in, and he gave Kate a wave and smile. "Detective Beckett! Welcome back."

Kate smiled. She hadn't expected him to remember her. He would have found that thought very amusing indeed, had he known. She really wasn't a very forgettable person. "Thanks, Eduardo. How have you been?"

"Good. Good. Been a long summer though, huh?" He rolled his eyes a little.

Rick was clearly trying to interrupt that train of thought. "I'm expecting company today. Can you do me a favor and announce them rather than just sending them up?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Castle," he smiled.

"It's Rick."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Castle." This was their routine pretty much since Day One of Eduardo's employment, and they clearly enjoyed it. Rick waved sardonically and rolled on with his shopping cart, Kate following behind with her bag of produce. In the elevator, he tried to figure out what to say when he let her in. He mulled over things like _"Welcome to my humble abode,"_ even though it wasn't exactly humble, or his _'haven of love'_ which would have sent her screaming in the other direction, or _'glorified man cave'_ which she probably would have laughed at in a good way, or _'my decorator's monthly Lexus payment'_... or, oh, hell. Keep it simple. Should he say, ' _Welcome Beckett, make yourself at home?'_

Upstairs he unlocked his door and ushered Kate in with a flourish. "Welcome home," said his errant mouth.

She noticed that, and gave him a look askance as she stepped past him through the front door. "Is anyone else home?" she almost whispered. She looked around a little anxiously. Like she might bolt.

He said, "Nobody's been living here for a few weeks – Mother's in Ashland. Alexis is due home Monday, but I'll be heading out of town tomorrow, so I'll miss her."

Kate's face fell, but he missed that too, taking a side trip to the laundry room to throw his egg-crusted shirt into a basket. She wheeled his shopping cart into the kitchen.

He said, "So the place has been empty for weeks except for a few touchups by the housekeeper." He busied himself with unzipping the cordura cases in his shopping basket, popping groceries into the near-packed fridge with dizzying speed. "I just dropped off the basic groceries and luggage early this morning, opened the skylight to air it out."

Kate nodded and glanced up. It was late morning, now, and light slanted down toward the western wall of the living room.

He added, "I feel sort of homeless. Gina and I have been doing book promo stuff, when I'm not at the Hamptons." He rummaged around, placing all the odd jars of sauces and dressings in the fridge door. "This feels better. I hate an empty fridge."

"I thought she was there with you."

"Oh, no, she just stayed that first week, we had our usual monstrous fight, and we've been trying to establish some kind of detente ever since." He was so very busy, trying to get things straightened away as the air chilled around him, afraid to see her reaction.

She said, "You're still together, though." She started handing food items to him. Fresh pressed apple cider. The bangers. A sealed plastic packet of handmade tomato shrimp tortellini, gathered into darling, plump buds of pink pasta. She moved quickly because her nipples had gone rock-hard so close to the fridge and stood out like little icebergs, waiting to be nudged by a passing Titanic. Or maybe the Great White Whale.

" _Working_ together. She may have little love for me right now, but she gets along really well with her own share of the advances."

Kate held up a jar of mystery goo and peered into it. "Kombucha starter?"

He grinned. "I thought it might be a fun experiment. The lady at the Kombucha booth talks to hers and recommends I do the same. Also it appears to like the Grateful Dead. I don't know when I'm supposed to stop talking to it, though. Just before I drink it?"

Kate chuckled. "Goodnight, little Kombucha, I'll most likely digest you alive in the morning."

Rick squeaked, "Help me, help me, oh, nooo!" while shaking the jar. It sloshed a little, and he patted its lid apologetically. "Sorry, little guy." He popped it into the fridge door. "Do you see the oysters anywhere? Second down. It's insulated." She opened that up and carefully pulled out a 7-pound bag of oysters packed in ice. She caught a delicious whiff of their oceanic, briny tang, then realized the bag was just slightly leaky, one of the jagged shells having thrust through three layers of plastic. Rick grabbed a large bowl and placed them in it, then had to rearrange the fridge somewhat to fit the bowl in.

"This is beginning to feel like a game of Tetris."

Kate pulled the cordura basket out of the cart. "Want me to rinse this?"

"Yes. Thanks!"

"Rockefeller?" she asked. "Or raw?"

"Nope. Angels on horseback. Batter & crumb, then fry 'em up with bacon and toast, serve with a little Meyer lemon hollandaise..."

"Just kill me."

"Only with kindness!" he grinned. "Now, the peaches."

Then she pulled out not only Manuela's bag of peaches, but also some "Saturn" peaches he'd bought at another booth. Those were flattened and pale-cream color, with a pink edge, and their delicate perfume filled Kate's senses. "Wow. I've never had these."

"They're really delicate. Low acidity, you pretty much have to pick them ripe and eat them the same day. You can grill the others because they're a little tart, but these... oh, they just melt on your tongue."

"What a wonderful idea." She wondered if her expression was a little loopy, and he paused in momentary concern.

"You all right there, Beckett?"

"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I, uh, next compartment?"

It held the berries, and in back, a small pink box. Kate looked at it in surprise. "From the cronut shop?"

He nodded. "But it's for after. A surprise."

"After what?"

"After we take showers, for one thing. Next should be the green stuff." Spinach, lettuce, arugula, green onions, green beans, the red onion, avocado and jalapeno. He squatted down and said, "I'm gonna open the bottom part, so hold on to my melons for me, would you?"

"I'm on it. Wouldn't want them flying around unrestrained."

"More like rolling." She handed him the melons, one at a time, and he placed them in the fridge's crisper drawer. "Done."

He straightened up. "Now, let's get you into a shower..."

She stepped back and ran into the cart with her bruised thigh. "Ow. Castle if you think..."

"Detective, my intentions are fully honorable. We have two showers here. Go upstairs, you'll see the guest bathroom of your wildest dreams. Clean towels in the cabinet, toiletries and the softest little mat for your tootsies..."

"Tootsies?" she glowered.

 _Oops. Too far._ "I'll find something for you to change into, just leave the outer door unlocked so I can drop it off."

She gave him an uncertain frown. "You're sure?"

"Not entirely. Unless you want to wear my old wetsuit, I know that's around somewhere and I've gained forty pounds since the last time I wore it. So it should fit you, more or less." He headed into the office, pointedly not watching the handprints on her ass as she went upstairs. "If I can't find anything appropriate, you can just wear a bathrobe or put those nice oily clothes back on again."

He hurried into his bedroom, throwing his closet door open. "Hmmm." He rummaged through Gina's clothes that she had 'accidentally' left behind, no doubt thinking _'just in case we give it another try.'_ Considering that last fight, which had come completely and incomprehensibly out of the blue and seemed to be about " _...I can't believe you can actually sleep like that!..._ ", he'd expected her to pick them up when she came back to the City. Nope. Kate was definitely not gonna wear Gina's clothes, nor Alexis', nor, g/d forbid, his mother's. "All options are equally disturbing," he mused.

All of his clothes were far too big for Kate, although a pair of sweatpants and a Henley would do in a pinch, but it was Indian summer and he was planning to bake some brioche on a day that was already muggy. Instead he went for the top back shelf of his walk-in closet, and found a covered plastic bin labeled, "Wasted Youth." He'd brought it back out of storage. He planned to use its contents to demonstrate to Alexis about the prurient mind of the college-age male and about how much trouble a person can get into when away from home for the first time. But she'd been gone most of the summer with friends and her summer pre-med immersion program, and he hadn't yet had a chance to show her. A good rummaging produced a pair of soft, button-down, faded blue, straight-leg Levi's size 34 x 36, a size M black tee from the 1992 Freddie Mercury Memorial Concert at Wembley, and a pair of size 34 metallic-black bootie shorts he'd worn doing Rocky Horror sometime back in the stone age. The elastics were a bit limp, but they were stretchy enough. He guessed Beckett was a size 2 pant, so a 34 hip jean would fit her all right. The booty shorts might fit. He decided it was worth a try.

He also pulled out a black feather boa, tossed it over his shoulder, laughed maniacally into the mirror for a moment, then thinking better of the idea, tucked that away, replacing the box in his closet.

He took the clean clothes upstairs and knocked.

* * *

Kate peeled off her sweaty, oiled clothes and set them in the sink, then stepped into the water and lathered up, washing her hair twice. She rinsed and rinsed until she no longer smelled like an Italian canning factory in late August. She leaned against the cool shower wall, enjoying the contrast of the hot water and the scent of cucumber-citrus body wash. "Cucumber. Oh. Why does everything have to be shaped like sex?" she moaned. All that built-up erotic tension had her ready to melt before she even had the hot water coming out of the spigot. She didn't even have the forbearance to wait for a date with the little purple butterfly vibe at home in her bedside drawer. Her fingers slipped between her curls, she danced light strokes over her eager folds, and her breath started to come in quiet gasps almost immediately. The fan was on but she had no idea whether sound carried from the bathroom or not. She'd had one apartment where you could hear your next door neighbor flossing, and the decibel level only grew from there. So she kept it very quiet.

Castle knocked.

 _"DAMMIT!"_

"Hey, Beckett. Got everything you need in there?"

 _Not really._ "Oh! Yeah, I'm, I'm fine."

Kate was, in fact, much more than fine.

She'd been celibate for awhile, ever since things fell through with that tall-dark-and-unavailable cardiologist Lanie set her up with. The lack of interest had been mixed with a bit of loneliness, and the sad realization that she missed Castle so badly that nobody else really interested her. But with the approaching change of season and her own hormonal fluctuations, she'd awoken from an erotic dream (something to do with a bowling alley and an immense bag of popcorn) feeling very perky indeed, and that had been even before running into Ri- Castle. Now her own wetness contrasted with the water's slightly less lubricious quality. She could hear Castle's voice in her head, as she too often did. _"Lubricious. There's a word. Almost onomatopoeic."_

But now the real Castle was just outside the shower room door (which was separate from the sink and toilet area). And he was babbling, obviously nervous that she might have a concealed weapon on her, when the only concealed weapon she wanted was... " _oh, stop it, Kate, it's not gonna happen,"_ said her conscious, rational mind. Her index finger begged to differ. _  
_

Rick talked fast, hoping she didn't have a concealed weapon somewhere on her, uh, person. "Uh, okay, the outside door's unlocked here, so I'll just come in - but I won't come into the shower area, OK?

"Please," she said. She didn't really care what he was saying, but oh, god, that voice. _Just keep talking, Castle._ She was glad she'd locked the shower room door, because if he'd walked in at that moment, she would have been on him like an octopus on... seafood... something... _;askfj awei()*UEK: f nifne -_ she could not _even._

"I'll just leave you these clean clothes, and I'll get your laundry started. Delicate cycle okay?"

"Yes." She couldn't stop... "Yeah."

He thought for a moment she might be crying. "Uh, Beckett?"

"Castle."

"You sure you're..."

"I'm... FINE! Really. Go on. Take your own damn shower."

 _"Either that or break down the door and screw my brains out!"_ _-_ She didn't say that part out loud. _  
_

* * *

On the other side of the door, Rick said, "Yeah, okay then."

Huh. Interesting. Was she...? No. Better not to ask.

He smirked to himself as he went back downstairs with her bundle of oily clothes. Then he shook his head. Maybe he was imagining it, but... she'd seemed a little preoccupied. Maybe she was just nervous having him on the other side of the door. She had to know he was still in lo- ... still hot for her, right? Knowing he was alone, he stripped, and sprayed pre-wash on his egg-stiffened, smelly clothes. Her clothes were soaked not only with oil and vinegar, but also sweat and pheromones, and his endocrine system was trumpeting like a stag in rut. Really, he had the best of intentions as he went over every inch of her stained clothing. He sprayed pre-wash on her sports bra. And her tank top. And her leggings. And her socks. And her... Omigod, those cream lace panties were soaked, in a good way. His brain said, _"Move along, nothing to see here, Bucko,"_ and he literally had to throw those panties into the washer and make a run for his own shower with a dish towel over his rampant privates. He wasn't entirely sure he was gonna make it without having to wipe up a premature spill.

Was it his subconscious that made him leave the master bathroom door unlocked?

He threw himself into the shower. Forget cold, there are some kinds of tension a cold shower just can't cure, but only delay. He wanted warm, and wet, and _now_. Which was reasonable, because he had nobody to please but himself. He hadn't been with Gina since a brief and unsatisfying attempt in early June; despite their best efforts to get along, it had just gotten too hard. After that, maybe he'd been depressed. He hadn't given Proportionately Appropriate Castle his due for at least a week, for a reason he couldn't quite put his finger (oh!) on. Well, he was putting his fingers on it now. All of them.

He didn't bother with anything resembling foreplay, really just wanting to jump in and get it over with. He closed his eyes and placed himself at that farmer's market, coming out from the fresh fish stand with the smell of oysters still in his nostrils. Kate had been walking from the churro cart gripping, well, an elongated and friendly-looking pastry. He thought of Kate nibbling that churro, sipping that awful hipster coffee with disappointment and... was it loneliness? etched on her face. That was when he ducked into the coffee house and got her what he knew she wanted, although despite her usual proclivity, he got the real-sugar syrup instead (she looked a little underfed to him). He thought of her sensual pleasure as she bent her head to sniff the peaches. He watched the expressions roll across her face before she managed to hide them away, when she heard his voice and turned to see him: Joy. Relief. Something else, he hoped, but didn't dare believe. The wish just made him sad, so he went back to thinking about sexier things. The tiny satisfied smile when she sipped her latte, and the sweet mix of embarrassment and pleasure when she realized he'd had it made just for her. The way she yanked Dumpher's arms back and subdued him with just a twist of those beautiful, strong wrists... the way her tongue darted out to lick the last little bit of maple cream out of her doughnut (she'd saved him half!). The way she looked at him, and really listened, and best of all, seemed actually to be glad to see him. He thought of the way her voice sounded, husky and sweet, in the shower just upstairs... He almost imagined hearing her call his name, and he whispered, "Kate." His libido had been quite yanked around in the previous two hours, so he was very close to reaching a reasonably satisfying climax, considering the company at hand. His hand moved faster, the pressure more intense, the water rushing over him, a drop of preliminary ejaculate smoothed his palm and he started to feel that rush, his breath coming in gasps and a moan wanting to build up in his throat, and that's how Gina found him when she stormed into the bathroom.

 **End of Chapter 6  
**

* * *

 _Yeah, I didn't expect Gina at all, that was a complete surprise. I love writing!_ **  
**


	7. HBSB CH7: Good for Something

_Dear Guest:  
I used to wear my boyfriend's button-down 501s in the 80s. I had a different waist-to-hip ratio than Kate's but at a size 5 to 9 (depending on cut) with 35" hips, I could wear his 34" waist 501s pretty tightly. So I figure they'd be loose on Kate, who's probably a 34" to 35" hip with a teeny waist. _

_P.S. we both had incredibly cute butts, but in very different ways._ :-D

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

Rick and Gina spoke simultaneously, their voices echoing off the slick tile surfaces. "What the _hell!?_ "

Gina's expression was a mix of annoyance and the possibility that she'd be willing to forgive _Whatever-Had-Pissed-Her-Off-This-Time_ with record speed. She indicated his erection. "Did you have plans for that?"

"Not any more," he growled, and it turned into a rumbling, "Goddammit, Gina, could you have knocked?"

"You left the door unlocked."

Rick shut off the water and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his hips to rein in the rather painful evidence of his arousal.

"Have you seen Tweeter?" she snapped.

"No. I've been busy. Shopping."

"Shopping with Kate Beckett. _In matching shirts?_ "

"Oh come on, Gina. We're just friends."

She glared at him. "Like you and I are," (she made finger quotes) "'Just friends.'"

"No. According to our agreement when we went to the Hamptons, you and I were simply _old friends and fuck buddies with no strings attached._ Your words, not mine. You also promised something about not nagging me and just having fun."

"I just wanted you where I could keep an eye on you, but the fringe benefits were hardly worth it."

"You were the one who pushed me away again, Gina."

"Well, it was obvious that wasn't going to work out the minute you started talking in your sleep," she snapped.

"What?"

She sneered. "'I _love_ you Kate.' 'Come _away_ with me, Kate.' 'Let's make a _baby_ , Kate.'"

He went pale. "Seriously? Gina, those were dreams. It's no big..."

"You woke me up humping my leg and calling me Kate, so do _not_ give me that shit."

His reply was something like the sound of a fish being hauled onto a hot concrete wharf. "Thfffkkgghh."

She went to the closet and started pulling out her clothes, throwing them into an empty laundry basket. "I should have done this a month ago."

"Then why didn't you?"

"Because you haven't written a word since May, and as previously mentioned, you need watching, Ricky."

"I have too."

"A three-page outline of a pirate novel and a bunch of "research" about, what was it, the heroin trade in Thailand?"

He went even paler. "You got into my laptop?"

"I was concerned."

"Concerned."

"You think by now I can't tell when you're just pretending to write?"

"Writing isn't all writing. Sometimes it's just thinking. _Uninterrupted_ thinking."

"You've had way too much uninterrupted time _thinking_ about Kate Beckett." She made a pumping motion with her fist.

He scowled. "Hey, that's..." (It was fair. He stopped talking)

"When I saw that research I was actually kind of thrilled. I hoped maybe you were going back to spy stories again."

"How much of it did you read?" he said quietly. There was something in his face now that scared her for a moment, and then it was gone, his expression strangely placid, like someone had pulled curtains over a window.

"Nothing, really, I just skimmed down with the cursor a couple of frames, it was nothing I was interested in."

He seemed to relax a little then, the smile too quick, too fake. "Good. Guess I should have changed my password a while ago."

"You can trust me. I can help you..."

"I do trust you. With everything except my heart and my credit card. And my laptop. And my front door key."

She huffed. "If it weren't for all my hard work, you wouldn't have any credit to speak of, because you never would have finished another damn thing after Meredith dumped you."

"How can you shay that?" _Goddamn lisp._ "Writing takes time, and if there's nothing in my way, I do just fine without your bitching at me."

"Well if you would meet your deadlines I might be a little nicer about it..."

"I shouldn't have to earn affection by producing stories for you."

"Is that how you earned Detective Beckett's 'friendship'?" Again with the finger quotes. He made a mental note to only use those when he really wanted to irritate someone.

"Look, there's nothing going on between us. We've been completely out of contact all summer, we just ran into each other at the farmer's..."

"Ha. Really? She's trading sex for a little fame and fortune? Wouldn't be the first woman to do that."

"We're just friends. She has no interest in me. I'm amazed she tolerates me at all."

"We'll just see about that," Gina snapped. "Why don't we just give her a call." She grabbed his phone from the bedside table and held it out to him. "See if your story holds water."

Rick paused, his eyes wide, and his glance just barely flickered to the bedroom door.

"Oh, no," Gina huffed. "She's here? Where. Under the bed? She's not in the closet, I would have tripped over her gigantic feet when I reached in to get my shoes."

His voice was small, talking around a tight lump of everything that could ever possibly go wrong. He went to the dresser and pulled out underwear, a black tee, and a clean pair of gray canvas shorts. "I'm not sure exactly. Most likely the guest bathroom?"

"Well, what's she..."

"Just... Let me get dressed. Don't go anywhere."

He stepped into the bathroom to pull the towel off and his clothes on, and that hurt Gina more than anything else so far, that he had suddenly become modest around her. She chuckled nervously and called through the closed door. "I've seen you naked before, Rick." She was embarrassed that it came out as an actual whine. She'd spent too much time around Paula.

"Well, you won't be seeing that again," he replied. She heard him rummaging around in the bathroom, rather violently. He emerged with her cosmetic bag. He was just stuffing her toothbrush and shave gel in. He tossed it onto her pile of belongings and stalked out to the office. "Kate, are you still here?"

* * *

Meanwhile, Kate had finished her "me time" and her shower, with her hair mostly blow-dried and knotted into a bun with a pencil she found on the antique writing desk in the guest room. Rick's old Queen tee and jeans were softly oversized for her, but the lycra on those metallic booty shorts was fatigued and scratchy, so she went commando, the straight-legged jeans low on her hipbones and puddling slightly at her ankles. She padded downstairs to the kitchen. All was quiet, and he'd mentioned going to shower. She didn't want to touch anything of Castle's without asking, but she opened up her produce bag, which she'd used to wallop Donald Dumpher. Her tomatoes had been smashed beyond recognition. She set them aside in a bowl, thinking maybe Castle might want to add them to the guacamole. Humming contentedly to herself, she rinsed off the rest of her produce and set it out on the counter top, sorted more or less by length rather than circumference: cucumber, zucchini, parsnips, carrots. She started rinsing the vegetables off, although they were already pretty clean, and set them on the other side of the sink to drain on a length of paper towel. When she heard Rick's call, and his rapid footsteps coming up from behind, and the office door opened, she turned with a zucchini in one hand and a parsnip in the other. With a big smile, she said "So. What do you think I should do with these?

Her face fell when she saw Gina tottering out of the office behind him, carrying a laundry basket heaped with a garment bag, clothes, shoes, and some personal effects.

Gina said, "Detective Beckett. Hello there."

Kate said cautiously, "Hello." She set the vegetables down and moved sideways, slowly away from the counter. "How are you, Gina?" It was exactly the voice she'd use to convince a mugger to drop a gun. In fact, she positioned her body between Gina and the knife block.

"Oh, I am just _swell_." Gina slammed her laundry basket down on the kitchen island. "He's back in town ONE DAY and you're wearing matching shirts, for God's sake? Do you know how long I tried to get him to wear matching outfits?"

Kate's mouth opened and closed. She looked down at the clothes he had lent her; their shirts no longer matched. She looked to Castle for help. He looked like a bug on a pin.

Castle ventured, "I had no interest in wearing a salmon-colored polo shirt. Ever. No matter how much I might love anyone, I have my limits."

"But you love her so much you'll dress up as a goddamn WATERMELON?" Gina was near tears.

Rick and Kate exchanged glances, him mortified, Kate terribly confused. Rick said, "Where did you get... okay, what did you see exactly?"

She sat down at the kitchen island and sobbed. "Don't act so fucking innocent. There's video all over Tweeter and Myface. Kate arresting some junkie, and you holding the guy up with a sunflower, and some lady yelling about walnuts, and then there you are walking down the street in … matching watermelon shirts. You _asshole_."

Kate said, "Gina, I can explain."

"Oh. Can you?" Gina snapped. "Can you explain how he's written nothing except four pages of _'all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy'_ since May?"

"In my defense," said Rick tightly, "It was actually _'The Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over The Lazy Dog'_ in 20-pitch, double spaced, three pages, and I was testing pirate fonts."

Kate said, "Did you try Roanoke?"

"I went with Blackadder."

Gina rubbed her forehead in misery. "That could work. For the title page?"

"No. For the map. I'll let the graphics people work out the title page, presuming the damn book ever gets written." Castle sighed, reached into the fridge, and pulled out a pan of brioche dough and a carton of milk. "I'm gonna make some coffee."

Gina rubbed her again and said in a small voice, "Just water, please."

Kate poured a glass of water and gave it to Gina. Gina pulled a bottle of ibuprophen out of her purse and downed three of them, then chased them with a couple of antacid tablets because ibuprophen really did wreak havoc on her ulcer. It occurred to her that, somehow, Kate already seemed to have become the lady of the house, and Gina hadn't even turned in her key yet. She added a little blue pill that assured she'd be feeling a lot calmer within twenty minutes.

Castle slammed around with the espresso machine, thinking. In trying to tamp coffee grounds into the steamer basket, he dropped it, and the deep-brown powder flew out as the cup hit the counter. He swore under his breath, grabbed a paper towel, wiped up, and started over.

Kate said to him, "If you looked any madder, you'd be able to foam the milk with the steam coming out of your ears."

Rick snarled, "At least I'm good for _something_."

Kate said, "I'm sorry. Look, I should go. You guys need to..."

"NO!" Rick and Gina spoke at once, then stared at each other in surprise.

Gina said, "Detective Beckett, just tell me the truth, because Mr. Slippery there sure won't. How long have you guys been sleeping together?"

Rick snapped, "That's none of your business."

"The hell it isn't!" Gina and Kate responded as one, then Kate added, "You guys are lovers."

"Were," said Rick.

"...She has a right to know. Gina, Castle's never even kissed me. Except once on the cheek."

Gina stared at her, flabbergasted. "That's really kinky."

Rick huffed, and Kate face-palmed. "We've never done _anything_... like that. We're just friends. He flirts a little, but he flirts with everyone and has made it very clear he has no interest in a serious relationship."

"What about the things he writes about you?"

Rick grumbled, "So nice of you to make conversation about me as if I weren't even here."

Ignoring Rick, Kate corrected Gina. "That's Nikki. Not me. He writes about a made-up version of someone who barely resembles me. Especially the slutty part. That's all him. He's a writer, it's what he does."

Gina said, "My God, you two are clueless. I really thought I could steer him back on course. I thought he just needed to get laid, that he'd forget about you and move on with his life. He's an eminently distract-able man."

Rick pushed the button on the espresso machine and growled, "Gina..."

"But no. Beckett this, Beckett that, every five minutes – I'm amazed I lasted a day, let alone a week..."

Rick said it again, more sharply. "Gina. Please." His eyes bugged, out, he pursed his lips... the dimples went away. She knew the Scary Face. It was worse than the Pissy Face but not as scary as the Cold Dead Eyes Of Imminent Explosion, which she'd only seen once, used on a mugger a very long time ago, to the mugger's detriment.

Kate said, "You only stayed a week?" She turned to Rick. "Why didn't you...

Gina said, "You think this is just some harmless flirtation, you stringing him along by..."

Rick took the stainless milk pitcher and tossed it into the sink, hard. "Gina. Thanks for stopping by and setting me straight on everything I'm doing wrong with my life. Leave your keys with Eduardo downstairs."

"Fine. It's about time I stopped mothering you, anyway. So you'll be hearing from Black Pawn's lawyers and see if they can coach you down the garden path to gainful publication, but you'll have to get someone else to keep your..."

"GINA!" he thundered.

She turned to Kate. "So, do you love him?"

Kate's mouth opened and closed, and if she hadn't looked so terrified, it would have been funny.

Rick said, "Please, Kate, you don't have to answer that. There's no reason you should have to be in the middle of..."

Kate felt a strange, light sensation, almost a rushing in her ears, as if she was bathing in champagne. "Yes," said Kate. "I do. But..."

"Great. See, Rick? I told you so."

Rick said, "No, you _didn't_. I believe your actual words were, 'She's damaged and cold, and she's not worth your time.'"

Kate bristled but said nothing, just picked up the milk pitcher and started scrubbing it out. She stood with her back to them, her ears red as a watermelon T-shirt, wishing she could just put herself down the garbage disposal and be peacefully absorbed into the bowels of the New York City sewer system, where she belonged.

"I also said that 'No matter how Beckett _feels_ about you, she'll never bother to pry you out of all the armor you wear under that cute, cuddly veneer.'" Gina picked up her laundry basket and Rick hurried to open the door, letting her out into the hallway. "If you love him, Detective, then you make him write something worth reading. I've had it. But in the long run, for your own good, you'd be smart to run the other way. Let him move on. It'll only get worse the longer you wait."

Rick slammed the door after her, and stood with his back to Kate. He was blushing so hard that his ears and even the back of his neck had gone bright red.

He said, "I'm gonna kill Eduardo."

Having finished frantically cleaning the milk pitcher, Kate poured milk in with a shaking hand and started foaming it up. "Hey, Castle. Cappuccino or latte?"

"Arsenic?" He ran a hand through his damp hair and sighed, turning back to her with a shaky smile.

She said, "Fresh out. I picked up some hemlock at the market, though."

"I should have made her a cup to go. Better yet, first thing when she busted in here."

Kate made herself a double-shot latte. Rick didn't do sugar-free, so she went for his homemade vanilla syrup. She took a sip and hummed, "I don't know what you put in this stuff, but it's... amazing."

"Vanilla bean steeped in water and a little rum, boiled down with organic cane sugar, a dash of honey, and love." He spoke absently, almost as if he were talking in his sleep.

He went to the landline to check messages. He played one from Gina: _"_ _Rick, what the hell were you doing this morning? I thought you were gonna host a writer's retreat, but you're out playing cops and robbers with Beckett again? Exactly how much research do you have to do? This is worse than that bitch Sophia. You'd better know what you're doing. Call Paula, because she's gonna need to put a spin on it..."_ Click. The machine beeped when Rick pressed the erase button.

Then a call from Paula. _"Ricky, my Gawd, can't you keep your damn nose clean for a week? Gina's all up my ass because you and her were supposed to do some writer's thing and you blew her off. What the hell's goin' on, and why are you hangin' out with that cop again when you said you were done with Ni..."_ Click. Beeeep! _  
_

Kate handed him a double cappuccino with a dash of the syrup (she was always a little surprised that he didn't like his coffee at least as sweet as she did.) "You blew Gina off to spend the morning with me?"

"No! I didn't even know she was in town, thought she was in Connecticut visiting friends. Maybe Patterson's assistant assumed Gina was throwing it with me, but I never told her about it. Word gets around."

Kate said, "Well, based on your usual parties, I'm sure it's just starving writers and their staff, jockeying for the leftovers." She grabbed a knife and the cutting board, dumped the smashed tomatoes out of the bowl, and started chopping them coarsely.

He said, "Could you just use the flesh part? The seeds tend to make it slimy." She nodded silently.

The next call was from Eduardo. _"_ _Mr. Castle, just want you to know that Ms. Cowell is coming up."_ Rick said, by way of apology, "I guess I was in the shower for all of these."

Then another message from Eduardo: _"_ _Mr. Castle, Ms. Cowell just got in the elevator and I should warn you she's out for blood. Sorry, I would've warned you but you didn't pick up."_

Rick cleared the message queue, then his throat.

Kate selected two avocados, hefting them dreamily in her hands again. "These are perfect," she murmured. She then sliced them in half, easily removing the seed, then scoring the smooth, green flesh crisscross so that when she popped the skin back, a pile of neat little green cubes fell easily in with the tomatoes. Then she halved a lime, and its sweet, aromatic scent added a little magic to the air.

"Got a juicer?"

"Top drawer, right of your hip."

He took a sip of his cappuccino and sighed. She went at the poor little green fruit with a vengeance, wringing every last drop of juice out of it.

He handed her a strainer. "Easier than picking the seeds out."

She knew where he kept the forks. She found one and mashed up the avocado with the tomato and the lime juice. She said, "Got any fresh garlic?"

"Was that true?" He handed her a clove of garlic. She smashed it with the side of her knife, peeled off the papery skin, and minced the clove finely, adding it to the guacamole. She poured the lime juice over. "Do you like it chunky or creamy?"

"More toward creamy," he rasped. He watched her breasts jiggle slightly as she whipped the guacamole with a fork.

He said, "Was it true?"

"What? Yeah, a strainer's definitely easier..."

"Do you love me, Beckett?"

 **End Chapter 27**


	8. HBSH ch 8: Tuck and Roll

**Chapter 8 -  
**

 **Tuck and Roll  
**

 _Like everyone in the fandom except a few trolls who seem to have a misplaced joy in making others miserable, I'm in mourning for one of the few shows I've ever truly loved. So maybe this chapter comes at a tough time. Maybe it helps. All I know is that nothing lasts forever, even angst. **  
**_

* * *

Kate swallowed her nerves, and they felt like a wad of lint spiked with tumbtacks. She washed her hands then sniffed her fingers. "Garlic."

He said, "If you wipe your fingers off with the lime, then rinse them again, it helps get the garlic smell off your skin."

"Really?" she tried it, smelled her fingers, and quirked her eyebrow in surprise. "Who knew."

"Citric acid. Maybe glycolic, I can't remember. So, Kate. _Do_ you?"

She huffed a little sigh. "It's compli..."

"Don't tell me it's complicated. I know it's complicated," he said, more sharply than he meant to.

"I'm not ready to be in a relationship."

"That washn't the question."

She forced herself to keep looking at his anxious, hurt, careful face. "I love quite a few people, Castle. For a lot of different reasons."

He nodded. "So do I."

"And there are different ways to love a person."

"I know." He closed his eyes, trying to give her room to express her feelings, but wanting to scream, _"_ _What? What do you want from me?"_ But he held it in. Instead, he spoke on a ragged breath. "Kate..."

"Castle, don't." Her calm demeanor was pretty fragile after all. She sipped her latte. "Do you have any hot sauce? For the guacamole."

"Yeah, but I'm on a deadline," he said. He took the nascent guacamole and covered it with plastic wrap, and popped it into the fridge. "Leave the cutting board, I'll do the onion and jalapeno later."

"Okay," she said mildly. "You seem to have this covered, and I really should go before your party starts." She grabbed her freshly-washed phallic symbols (I mean vegetables) and started stuffing them back into their plastic bags.

"No. You really shouldn't. We're running out of time." He marshaled every ounce of self- discipline he'd ever cultivated (more than one might expect unless one knew the whole story) and sighed lightly, shaking the tension out of his broad shoulders. "And it's not a party. It's a ... work meeting. A salon, maybe, but not really a party. We get some intense shit done." He cast a glance anxiously at his rather disorderly kitchen. "Look, it's not often I ask you for help, and I really do need you for this."

That piqued her interest. "What?"

"Do you know how to form brioche?"

She frowned, a little confused. He washed and dried his hands, glancing over at the pan of brioche dough. "The dough has a sweet spot."

"I thought it was all sweet."

"Just like me! Hah. But no." He chuckled mirthlessly. "It has to be just warm enough to work, but cool enough to hold its shape. I'm way behind because of the whole egg-and-walnut experience. So we need to work fast." He glanced at the kitchen clock and used his best puppydog eyes. "It'll take half the time if you help me."

He pulled out a canister of flour and lightly dusted both his hands and the cool marble pastry board, talking while he worked. "Take a cut section and knead it a little. Like this, all right? Now you roll it into a ball under your palm...It's easy, it just takes a little time."

She watched his hands, fascinated, and now that the Threat of Imminent Gut-Wrenching Truth was lifted, so was her threat of departure. She shrugged and dusted flour onto her hands, and he knew that his girl-in-the-headlights trap had sprung.

He continued. "We want it to get sort of a smooth skin on it... then elongate the ball, and use your finger to make a dent. So now it looks like a bowling pin, see?"

Kate followed along with him. His large hands were surprisingly deft, kneading then rolling the soft, pliant yellow dough.

He said, "You've made these before?"

"No. I'm not sure where this is going. Oh, is mine too skinny?"

"You're doing fine. The dough will relax, when it's had time to rest a little. We used to make these for the PTA cake walk at Alexis' school carnival."

"I always thought people just tore the balls apart and stuck them back on," Kate said.

"Ouch! How crude," he snickered. "It's fine, but it's not traditional, and you don't get quite the same texture." They made two dozen little bowling pins over the course of about ten minutes. They didn't speak much, but just worked together, watching one another, comparing guacamole recipes and the relative value of using vinegar from the salsa jar in addition to lime juice. Then there was a short debate about cilantro.

She said, "Not that you'd serve guacamole on brioche..."

He winced. "Right. Bad idea. Some things just don't go together."

She looked at him, very directly. "Some things do, Castle. Where's your sense of adventure?"

And just like that, he was all sunshine again. He grabbed a couple of eggs from the fridge and set the oven to preheat.

He said, "Can you beat the eggs? Add a pinch of salt and sugar. I'll grease the tins." The tins were stainless steel, round and fluted, sized something like a cupcake. He used clean fingers to rub softened butter on the inside of each tin, setting them neatly on a baking sheet.

"Now this is the fun part," he grinned.

She stared at him, wondering if there could be anything more fun than watching him rub butter into the grooves of a brioche tin. Despite herself, she was drawn in once again at this mercurial man. How slowly he seemed to anger, how quickly he seemed to completely recover, how gentle he could be even under stress. She ached with the memory of missing him and the knowledge she'd never stop when he left again.

She gave him a fair semblance of a smile. "I was already having fun." To his eyes she seemed surprised that it was true: that she could be having fun after such a very weird morning.

"Good! Okay, we have our egg wash - that needs to sit, and we'll form the buns into shape."

Kate just smiled quizzically. "Either that or bake them as is and go bowling."

"Allow me to demonstrate the method, Detective. You cup your fingers under the dough, and push through the center with your thumbs to make a hole."

"Okay," she said doubtfully.

He now had a circle of dough with an obscene little dongle hanging off the front. He said, "Now, take little Mr. Happy, there, and swing him down, then push him up and inside, through the hole."

Kate had found something more fun to watch than Richard Castle greasing brioche tins. She giggled, "Mr. Happy? Really, Castle?"

"Well, he's not that happy," Rick conceded. "Mr. Droopy?"

She struggled a little, coordinating the motion.

He said, "You have to be a little firmer than that. Show it who's boss."

"I stretched it too far," she lamented.

"No, no, it's fine, it just needs a rest. Look, it's all tired out and ready for its snuggly little bed." He settled his first brioche into a tin on the far end of the row. "You want it to stand straight up so that the knob is on the top."

Kate plopped her first brioche into its shiny receptacle and patted it gently. "Sweet dreams, Little Squishy Bun." She looked at it doubtfully. The two brioches strongly resembled a pair of small, round yellow tits with overly-large nipples.

He nudged one of the soft buns with his finger, straightening it slightly, with a gesture that looked remarkably like tweaking a nipple. The elastic dough rebounded in a lively way that make Kate lick her lips.

He said, "It'll rise a bit more with baking. It'll be all toasty and irresistible. They're amazing when they're all warm and soft inside."

"What happens if it's crooked?"

He shrugged. "We'll have to just close our eyes and eat it anyway."

Kate gave him a long, slow, dreamy blink, then started rolling her second brioche. It came out nicely, its curves humped out over the top of the little fluted pan. She picked up another blob of dough and started rolling. "I think I've got the hang of this."

"Hang," he snorted. "I think you do, Detective Beckett. You contain multitudes."

She was silent for a long moment. "So, who's Sophia?"

"Sophia?"

"'From the CIA?"

Rick was dongling his third brioche, frowning in concentration. "I shadowed her. Got some info that I used for background in a couple of books."

"How close of a shadow were you?"

His blue eyes fixed on hers. "Too close. It was a bad idea."

"As bad an idea as, Gina..." Kate nodded her head to the front door, where a miasma of bad feeling left behind by Gina still seemed to float like a dark, glowering ghost.

He smiled tightly. "No love lost between Sophia and me, put it that way. Also narrowly avoided an extremely nasty death. Several of them."

"Do you still love Gina?" Kate asked. She pushed her Mr. Happy through the little hole. It was getting easier.

"In a way, sure. We fight like … it's not even as polite as cats and dogs. Maybe crazed weasels, which is also similar to the way we used to have sex right up till the day we got married."

Kate gaped at him in surprise.

"TMI?" he smirked. "Oh, come on, we're best friends, right?" There was something sharp in that question, then his tone softened a little. "But we've known each other since before Alexis was born. And sometimes the familiar seems..."

"Safe?"

"Not exactly. Obviously not comfortable, either. Just..." he hesitated. Another bun in the pan. Another ball of dough split and filled. "It's _there_ , like putting on an old pair of jeans."

"Speaking of which," she looked down at herself in his clothes, "Thanks for the loan."

"How do you like wearing my clothes?"

She spluttered. "These jeans are yours?"

"I was twenty-one. Lived in a fifth floor walk-up, rode my bike everywhere, fenced for the NYU team, lived on ketchup soup, and weighed 148 pounds soaking wet."

" _Ketchup soup?_ " Kate grimaced.

"Four packets ketchup, one packet mustard, twelve ounces hot water."

"Ugh."

He persisted, grinning. "If you're feeling really spendy, a sliced hard-boiled egg or a bullion cube."

"Good lord."

"We had some hungry times, especially when I was trying to work my way through college. One of my roommates was a founder of the Urban Forager movement. He got lead poisoning by eating a plate of termites he dug out of the wall and fried up for dinner."

Kate glared at him. "Now that's taking it a bit too far."

"No, no seriously. Just before they carted him off to the hospital, he told me they taste just like pineapple! He had to have chelation therapy..."

He wiped flour off his hands, reached up into a top cupboard, and gave a proper game-show-host flourish, beaming somewhere between embarrassment and pride. The whole cupboard was packed tightly with boxes of macaroni and cheese, packets of ramen, cans of beans and tuna and vegetables, Blue Sun protein bars, dried fruit, and one bottle of ketchup.

"Your Zombie Apocalypse Emergency Stash. Also good for bounced paychecks, soured book deals, hurricanes... This little cupboard will feed a family of four for a month, so long as folks don't love their kids too much."

Kate laughed. "Well, if I ever face the Zombie Apocalypse, I'll know where to go."

Rick closed the cupboard and went back to rolling his buns. "I'll totally have your back until we run out of ketchup."

"Then what happens?"

"Then we'll just have to flip a coin. Decide who eats whom first."

Neither of them could think of a word to say for a moment, their minds going to all sorts of interesting places.

Finally Rick said, "So. You like wearing the jeans?"

"Very comfy. A little loose, but they're soft. Why, do I look silly?"

"Not at all," he breathed. "You look a hell of a lot better in those jeans than I ever did."

"Thanks."

"Keep 'em if you like," he grinned. "The T-shirt, too. I'll never be able to look at it again without thinking of... brioche."

"Speaking of _jeans_. _Gina_. How did that happen in the first place? I mean, you're both smart and good-looking, but..." Kate shook her head.

He shrugged, a little sad. "When I was on the rebound from Meredith, I picked up on a few too many women. I got burned out, and lonely. I don't suppose you'd know how that is?"

"Nope. Not one bit." Kate accidentally rolled the dongle right off her brioche and had to patch it together. He took an amused glance, then ignored her fumbling efforts. Finally she gave up, rolled it into a ball again, and put it back in the fridge on a dish. _"_ _Pull yourself together,"_ she told it silently. It just sat there. She shut the fridge door and went back to manipulating the next bun.

Rick went on. "We traveled a lot together, earlier on especially, when I really had to haul ass to sell books."

 _"A considerable ass to haul,"_ she thought. He caught her glancing at his flank and wiggled his hip with a laugh. "Yeah, who's slutty now, Nikki Heat?" He tucked the next roll into its pan while Kate picked up another to start.

She simpered, "Nikki's actually very particular."

"Well," he admitted. "There've been times when I sure as hell wasn't. I'd wind up halfway across town when I was supposed to be at an appearance or at the airport." He grinned. "There was this one time where I showed up to the Lufthansa gate covered with seaweed and not much else, and I was damn lucky she had my passport and wallet with her or I'd be packing sardines in Norway, trying to earn my way home. She practically kept me on a leash for a while after that."

"Was there a muzzle, too?"

He waggled his eyebrows. "No. I've heard my voice is one of my sexiest features."

He stopped a moment, watching Kate watching his lips, and although she said nothing, she didn't take the opportunity to argue against his point. "It was not a particularly long leash, though, and a little thicker than the usual. Also she couldn't loop it around her wrist."

Kate had become a little overly-aggressive in her rolling technique, and her current bun now resembled a Persian cucumber. She sighed and put it in the fridge to rest with the other mangled victim of her absent-minded sculpting technique.

"Eventually Gina suggested it would be easier to just share a bed than trying to hunt me down for a flight to the next city."

"Ouch."

He smirked. "She suggested it very nicely, and it made perfect sense at the time. We had fun for a while, it was certainly convenient, it kept me out of trouble, and she's just... so... pretty."

Kate nodded concession.

"Then we decided we might as well get married."

"Might as well?"

"True love did not appear to be on the horizon for either of us, plus there were tax advantages. Plus she got along all right with Mother and Alexis as long as there was shopping and Mother was more-or-less sober. Plus she felt it was good publicity."

"Kind of weird considering she's always trying to get you to flirt with other women."

"Yeah, about that... I never fooled around behind her back, I just don't do that. But we... She was always eager to invite a third party in, even after we got married."

Kate blushed. "Oh."

"Actually," he said, "She was a lot more into it than I was. Uh, she mentioned she thinks you're pretty cute."

"Oh?" Kate's face flamed. "Why are you telling me this?"

"She suggested I invite you and Demming down to the Hamptons... so we could get you out of my system."

"Wow." Kate blew out a long breath. "That's... both oddly unselfish and really inappropriate."

"That's Gina. Takes the bull by the horns, every damn time. I'm just saying this because sooner or later, she might bring it up to you, and you might as well be prepared because for my part, I think it's a spectacularly bad idea."

"Why?"

"I'm not that into men, especially when they're better-looking than I am," he mumbled.

"He's - Castle, you're always going on about how ruggedly handsome you are!"

"That's code for _'my face is all crooked and I'm getting old.'_

"But... it all goes together so nicely. You're not so bad." (this is code for _"unfairly gorgeous,"_ but she didn't want to feed the ego just then.)

"Really?"

"Yes. Really."

"Oh." His smile was surprisingly shy. "Anyway, the whole menage-a-whoever thing really got to me after a while. I prefer things one-on-one. I'd rather have something intimate than just... athletic." He fired those damn blue love-lasers in her direction, and she felt a soft clench inside, and a gush of moisture beaded on the inside seam of Rick's erstwhile jeans.

"I see," she breathed. She actually felt slightly dizzy.

His gaze held hers another moment, then he was back to the brioche. "Anyway, we got along. We loved each other, just not that much. We like each other. Most of the time, we still work together reasonably well. But when we got engaged," he shuddered. "It wasn't _Bridezilla_ , It was _Mothra!_ "

Kate laughed. "With the giant fanning wings and the tiny singing twins?"

He nodded, took a sip of his latte, and whimpered, "I have never seen anyone dive into planning a wedding with more terrifying fervor."

Kate winced. "The wedding was formal?"

"Beyond formal. Evening. At a castle upstate. With kilts."

Kate nodded. She vaguely remembered reading about it. Also how nice he'd looked in a kilt in their official wedding photo.

He said, "I'm not even Scottish! She invited everyone in the publishing industry, and made Paula her maid of honor instead of her own sister. She changed gowns three times over the course of the _evening_."

"Three?"

"Okay, two. She changed from the formal gown to a cocktail dress. Then from the cocktail dress into a going-away dress. And it felt like we couldn't get out of there fast enough but the reception went on till 2 a.m. There was caviar and uni and raw squid that wiggled when the chef poured soy sauce on it."

"Eeiw!" Beckett cried.

"I know, right? I almost passed out. It was disgusting. I watched it wave goodbye as my guests consumed it raw."

"Eeeiw! No!" Kate squealed again. "Tell me you made that up?"

"No, no, I swear," he croaked. "Gave me nightmares."

"So... the reception. Wedding singer? Neil Diamond? Barry Manilow. Someone sincere but slightly cheesy. Ooh. Bono!"

He shook his head. "I wish. She hired Kenny G." His face was slack with mock-horror. "All the dancing was so. Damn. Slow."

She patted his bicep in mock sympathy and forgot to take her hand away. "At least there were no accordions."

"That would have been bliss by comparison," he shuddered. She stroked his arm, leaving a slight track of flour on his skin.

He looked down at her hand, and the corner of his mouth twitched in hope. She let go and went back to her work. Roll. Split. Tuck.

"Anyway," he said, "After we got married our relationship went downhill fast. I could never tell if I was too much for her, or not enough." His eyes searched Kate, his hurt and insecurity plain to see. "This seems to be a common thread with the ladies. Okay, with everyone."

"Do you think that it's you, or the women you choose?"

"That's what I've been trying to figure out! Drives me a little crazy, as you can see."

She gave him a sharp look. "Drives me a little crazy too, Castle."

He worked on his seventh brioche. "Considering everything we've been through today, you seem remarkably relaxed."

With her flirtatious little shrug, the faded phoenix wings on the chest of his old Freddie Mercury Memorial T-shirt rose and fell, caressing her breasts. "I had a nice morning, followed by a _really_ great shower."

His voice cracked. "Really?"

"Very satisfactory." Her face went bright red, and she ducked a little to hide her blush.

He was suddenly somber, insecure. "Kate, I hate to ruin the mood."

She split open a bun and passed the dongle through, her fingers as careful as her voice. "Then don't."

"I just want to make sure... are you actually flirting with me?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm that bad at it?"

"Oh, no. You are very, very good, you always have been. I just..." he sighed. "I'm a little keyed up. Sometimes I don't trust my own perceptions any more."

"How so?"

"Oh, you know. Women. Men. People."

"You're a very good judge of character, Rick."

"Am I?" _Roll. Tuck. Repeat._ "I saw a therapist over the summer, just a few sessions."

"Why?" She looked genuinely concerned. She'd rather die than talk to a stranger about her feelings. Unless someone had been murdered. Then, maybe.

"I seem to be repeating the same old mistakes."

"What kind of mistakes?"

"Getting involved with women who are," he hesitated. "Emotionally unavailable. Too many of my 'friends' are thrilled to accept gifts and be invited to box seats and borrow my Ferrari or whatever. But they don't bother even to _text_ me all summer."

Kate frowned "You didn't contact anyone, either."

"No. I didn't want to intrude. I got tired of butting in, where I wasn't wanted on my own merits."

" _Wanted_?" She was genuinely shocked. "Castle, we're your friends. And you've contributed so much. You have to know we all appreciate it, not just me."

Tears actually started in his eyes, and he blinked them back, feeling like a whiny twelve-year-old. "Exactly. Appreciate _it._ "

"Oh," she breathed.

"And apparently I'm your _best friend_ and you didn't think to even send me an email that you'd broken up with Demming?"

"Well, you were with Gina."

"Friendship is supposed to be a two-way street, Beckett. Why wouldn't my _'best friend'_ confide in me? Why wouldn't my _'best friend'_ be happy for me?"

Kate's mind went blank. Why indeed?

He continued, his voice cracking. "I _missed_ you, Kate. I missed the boys and everyone at the Precinct. And I missed writing about Nikki. But I can't have her in my mind without you storming right in here" (he tapped his temple, dusting flour in his eyebrow) "to stir things up. Nikki's a force of nature in my mind, just like you. When I invite her into my mind, she won't leave without a struggle. But when I try to invite you into my life in any way, you're always halfway out the door."

Her next brioche came out looking like someone had tried to strangle an albino newt by sticking its head up its ass. His was no better. The two brioche slumped next to one another, miserable and mis-shapen and all twisted up inside. Pretty much made for each other, and apparently doomed.

She stepped back from the counter with the brioche project unfinished. "I should go now, before I mess things up any further. I know you have company coming."

"If you really want to. But may I ask one more question?"

She didn't screw around with _"There's your question right there."_ She knew better. He was pale, shaking, the brioche project forgotten. She shrugged, her voice flat. "I might not know how to answer it."

He nodded, knowing her well enough to accept that she'd probably dodge answering honestly. "Where do you see us, in a year?"

Her chin trembled, and tears started up in her eyes, her body taut a a stretched rubber band, her voice choppy. "I don't know. Up to this morning, I thought you were long gone. I saw your face. When I said you were my best friend. Your expression. You looked so surprised and sad and maybe a little, I dunno, hopeful, so fast, and then," She made a little burst with her fingers, "Poof! You just hid it away."

"Is it true? Do you really think we can be friends if you can't be honest enough to tell me what's going on in your life? Or with your heart?"

"Okay, that's three," she snapped. She took a deep breath.

He watched her in rising despair, waiting for her to either run away or come out fighting. But she leaned her hip against the kitchen counter and picked at a piece of dried dough with her fingernail.

She didn't go away. And she was attempting to look casual. He had to give her points for trying. _"Stand down,"_ he thought. _"She won't run if you give her room to walk."_

"Four, but that's a technicality," he said more lightly, and noticed her still-not-going-anywhere with some surprise, but didn't comment on it. He leaned his rear end against the kitchen island, arms folded across his chest, protecting a heart that had already been broken too many times. "Kate, over the last eighteen months, I've run my ass ragged trying to figure out what you need, and," his arms flew out. "All I can tell is that you might like coffee a little bit. And that you need more space than the solar system has room for."

Her face fell, more tears starting up. "I need _hope_ , Castle. Hope that..." her body sort of twisted in frustration. "Hope that we won't ruin what we have."

"What we _have_? You mean the part about not talking to one another for four months at a stretch?"

"No." She rubbed her eyes in frustration. "Hope that we can take it further."

"Fur-whu?" he spluttered.

"Look what happened to your relationship with Gina. You used to be friends."

"Oh, we're still friends. That fight will blow over in a week."

"Really?"

"We had a fight in Venice on our honeymoon. They had to rename their most beloved landmark as 'The Bridge Where the Bride pushed the Groom Into the Canal Because She Hates PDAs in a Gondola.'"

"She's in love with you, Castle."

"She is not..."

"You're blind. How could she not be? You're sweet and caring and brilliant and hilarious, and you light up a room every time you walk into it, and you're too handsome for your own good, and you don't really believe any of it. How could anyone help falling in love with you?"

"Really?" He was so busy being shocked and flattered at the same time, that he barely heard the last words. He sighed, looked at the floor and wiped a hand over his face. "Meredith managed to avoid it, for one." He looked at her through his lashes. "What about you, Kate?"

 _Who, me? Well, I'm a coward._ "It was a rhetorical question."

"A lot of people can help loving me. I wear people out without even meaning to."

Her mouth quirked. "True."

"Please," he whispered. "I don't know how to do this. I just want you, Kate. I'd run into a burning building for you."

She bent her head, and rubbed a palm across her face, massaging her temples. "I know! And I don't deserve it, and I'd do the same for you, but then I'm a cop, so that's no big deal. Right? And face it, you'd run into a burning building to rescue a pet turtle, it's just the way you are. We are so fucked up."

"Why is that fucked up?"

"Because everything changes if you actually love me back. I thought this was just a game to you, and I flirted back because it was just fun, just a nice little distraction from my... from everything. I really do like your writing. And over time you won me over, more or less. And Nikki's wonderful. But you said you had no interest in marrying and you flirted so hard with every woman you met..."

"Not every woman!"

She parried his deflection and continued on the offense. "Okay, only the ones who threw themselves at you. But I meant no more to you than any of them. You just used me for inspiration and then you left."

"I wrote a goddamn book!"

"So? You killed off Derrick Storm. You've written lots of books, and set them aside, and moved on to new stories, and obviously, the same thing happened to me. I never expected to see you again after you went away with Gina. It took me months to pull myself together after you left."

"But you were with Demming. I thought he made you happy. Were you just trying to make me jealous?"

She shook her head. Tears choking her voice, rendering it shaky and girlish."I don't know. I did like him, I was trying so hard to distract myself from you, but... I broke up with him before you left. I was going to come to the Hamptons with you, but you..."

"Oh, no, Kate," he whispered, "Oh, God."

She watched a host of emotions flit across his face: confusion, anger, remorse, regret, embarrassment, more anger, grief, and possibly amusement at the sheer idiocy of their feeble attempts at connection. He was still a few paragraphs behind and trying to catch up. "Wait. Did you really say 'If I actually love you _back?'"_

 **End Chapter 8**


	9. HBSB ch9: Want & Need

**Chapter 9**

Oh, his smile! To her dying day, fifty-four years later, she would never forget it.

She rose up on her toes and said, "That was your invitation to kiss me."

Without another wasted word, he bent and kissed her, his satiny lips gently teasing, taking his time. She rose up into him with a tiny sound in the back of her throat, the softest, smallest moan, opened her lips and met him, touch for touch. At first it was delicate, then they were locked together full on, their mouths and hands exploring, stroking, rubbing, teasing. She arched her hips forward, just an inch, (which made them about 7.35" apart at the pubic bone), nudging against his manhood as it strained against the confines of his shorts. He growled, and she felt it as much as she heard it, his voice rumbling through her bones.

"Mmmmmmnnnnn _No!_ " he backed away, not rudely, but anxiously. "Look, Kate, if you keep that up I'm gonna have the most exciting three seconds of my entire life, followed by decades of humiliation and regret."

She nudged him again, a good 2.74" closer. "Keep that up and I really don't see any chance of either humiliation or regret."

He scrambled back, breaking contact altogether, hands up as a barrier between them. "That's it exactly... I really..." His chest heaved, his hands fisted at his thighs, and he fought to control himself. "I really want to do this right."

She frowned a little, confused. "I'm doing this wrong?"

"No! No, oh, Kate, you are..." he kissed her again, quickly, leaning forward with his hips at a safe distance. Okay, a safe distance would have been a suburb of Des Moines, Iowa, but even in that case it wouldn't have helped. He felt like his cock was a thousand miles long and determined to obliterate itself into a warm, cylindrical 3" target in the heart of Manhattan. "Oh, God, I am dying here and I have to finish these stupid rolls and you know what I want?"

"Ketchup soup?" she teased

"NO!" He hurried back to the brioche – there were only five more left – and she joined in. "We have to get these done so they can rise evenly and get into the oven – I figure we need another ten minutes at most before the first rolls start to go flat – then what I _want_ is to lift you up on the kitchen counter and give you a hard, fast fuck and..." his growl faded into a frustrated sigh. "That is _such_ a terrible idea."

Kate was kneading one of those bowling pins, and he had to stop watching because it looked not-so-much like a bowling pin and _far_ -too-much like one of those Japanese mushrooms that look like a detachable penis, and she was rolling it so very slowly...

"Seriously, Kate. My therapist kept saying, 'It is easy to identify what you want. You must honor what you need.'"

"She sounds a little like Dr. Ruth. Or Splinter in TMNT."

"She's really more like Carol Kane. But yeah, she's adorable. Anyway..."

Kate said, "What you need?" She separated the dough, very gently, and tucked the ball through the slot, very carefully, as if afraid to break something fragile. "You don't need me, then."

"No, I mean, yes, I do, but not... I just want... Oh, hell," he rasped. "Look, Kate, I'm flying out on tour again. Going to San Francisco tomorrow morning."

"Oh." She sagged inside.

He said, "What I've always done is just rushed in and … well, I take my time once I get there but this..." He laid his palms down flat on the counter, almost afraid to look at her. "It would feel so wrong to just... jump into bed and then leave."

Kate thought, _"Better than nothing..."_

"The moment my plane lifts off we'll both wonder if we did the wrong thing."

She nodded. "You're right."

He put a hand on her shoulder and ran it up and down her arm, slowly. "I didn't expect to run into you this morning, I didn't expect any of this, and really I want to just dive in but... in ninety minutes, my loft will be overrun with authors, and while I really want you to be a priority in my life again, I can't pull it off properly today. I need to honor my commitments."

"We're both adults, here, Castle," she said. What he'd said had not yet sunk in.

"I'm just trying to talk myself out of dragging you into the shower with me and..." he picked up his last brioche. Kate went to the fridge and pulled out the two she'd left to rest. They looked lonely.

He said, "I can't treat this like some stupid hookup. I need to take you some place quiet and private and beautiful. I need to bring you wine and flowers."

"For my grave?" she ventured. He grinned at the teasing reference to the way they'd met.

"No, my love."

Her eyes widened, flickering gold.

"Not for your grave but for your hair," he kissed it, above her temple; "For your tiny little nose," which he also kissed. "To float in your bathwater, to flavor your tea, and for petals to scatter on our bed." His fingers trailed gently down her throat to her collarbones, then down her arms to take her hands in his. "And I need to kiss you, everywhere." He kissed her cheeks, then her forehead, her nose again, her ears, her lips, her jaw, taking a methodical inventory.

"My love?" she breathed. She threw her arms around him again, holding him tightly.

He hadn't really meant to say that even though he'd imagined it a thousand times, and hearing it echoed back to him with such wonder brought him nearly to tears again.

She kissed him, and again it was a slow start, first gentle, then a rush and roar of desire building, building... he had to pull away again, gasping, his whole body thrumming with heat.

"And have to stop here for now, because if I don't I'll have to change my pants again, and we have company coming."

Kate beamed up at him. "Men are so gross." Then she grabbed his ear very gently ("OW!") and started marching him through his office, ("APPLESAPPLESAPPLES!") where the ensuite bed and bath waited beyond. "Come on, Castle. Take a shower. Calm yourself down a little." She gave his ass a very satisfying squeeze, then a little spank. "Shoo!"

She turned and left the office, closing the door behind her. She did wait a moment, listening, until she heard the bathroom door close and the faint sound of water moving through the pipes.

"Ohgod." He ran for it, threw off his clothes, and jumped back into the shower. And I do mean jumped. He actually slipped a little, staggered to regain his balance, and would have smashed his head in, if there hadn't been a grab bar installed. He loved grab bars in showers. They had been useful more times than he could count, and that made him think about Beckett and what she could do hanging onto a grab bar, and OhMyGodHereWeGo.

As an adult, so far he hadn't had any premature ejaculation problems, and that sure wasn't the way he wanted to start things off with Kate. But he really was overwhelmed with stress and excitement at the same time, and all it really took was a vivid thought of her holding those goddamn avocados cupped in her palms, and a few good strokes. His ejaculate erupted out of him like a herd of French clowns escaping a burning 1961 Nash Metropolitan – it just kept coming and coming, and just when he thought it was over, more clowns and maybe a dancing poodle.

He hadn't climaxed that fast since The Aeolian Academy's eighth grade beach picnic. He'd been wearing his only swimsuit, a hand-me-down red Speedo, lying on a towel to conceal a spontaneous boner. Then Mary Margaret Simms flopped down right across from him and, with a hot little wink, hitched her bikini top down so he could see her nipples. He'd had to stay there for another twenty minutes until he figured he was mostly dry, then run like hell for the water. He'd never worn a Speedo again. When he later read the Greek myth about the Birth of Venus, he could totally understand how Jupiter cast his foam upon the waves.

Rick wasn't thinking of Mary Margaret in this particular shower, though. He was thinking of Kate Beckett, whose actual breasts he could still only imagine, and all the things he wanted to do with her, some of them involving flower petals, or avocados, or both.

Once all the clowns had escaped the Nash, he caught his breath, washed up, hurried out of the shower and dried off. He made quick work of combing his hair, decided not to trim his beard, swiped antiperspirant across his armpits, and all this time, he found himself wondering if Kate was still there, or if she'd lost her nerve and left, or if she was mad that he hadn't dragged her into the shower with him as basic instinct screamed for him to do. The anxiety building again, it was all he could do to stop and put his boxers and shorts on. He was struggling into a fresh tee (" _third shirt of the day, what is this, a wedding?_ ) and stumbled out of the office to find Kate slowly brushing egg wash onto the risen brioche buns. She had her back to him and was singing a Queen song, softly...

 _Ooh you're the best friend that I ever had  
I've been with you such a long time  
You're my sunshine and I want you to know  
That my feelings are true  
I really love you  
Oh you're my best friend_

 _Ooh you make me live_

 _Ooh I've been wandering round  
But I still come back to you  
In rain or shine  
You've stood by me, love  
I'm happy, happy at home  
You're my best friend_

Her voice cracked a little on the high notes, but it was sweet anyway.

He was about to say something, or maybe join in singing (badly), then stopped himself. Some things are best done in solitude, and the last thing he wanted to do was embarrass her. If a person is in the middle of singing a Queen song, you just don't interrupt, because no matter how nice you are about it, nobody can sing like Freddie Mercury, especially not a capella when they've been crying a little bit. He went quietly back into the office, sat down at his desk, started up a new file on his computer, and began typing at full speed. A few moments later, Kate put the pan of brioche carefully into the oven and set the timer. Then she glanced up and noticed the office door was open. She called softly, "Castle?" and came to look in on him. He was deep in the groove already, his fingers flying over the keys.

"Rick? We have our buns in the oven. I set the timer for 25 minutes, but that was a guess."

Not even glancing up, he held up an index finger briefly and murmured "One sec. Please." then went back to typing. She'd seen him do this occasionally when he was taking notes on his phone or on that succession of little pads he kept in his pocket. But this was another order of magnitude. Oddly, she didn't feel shut out or bothered by his focus, because he looked so enthralled, and she knew that look. For the first time she was on his turf, not hers, and she was allowed to observe him without his becoming self-conscious.

It was the look he used to give her every morning when he brought her coffee. It was the look he'd given her earlier that morning, when she turned around and found him in Manuela's produce booth: A little discovery, a little wonder, a little hope, a lot of love, and she had been so blind she'd never even realized what it really was, even though it had been right there in front of her.

And when he looked away from the keyboard, raised his head, and said, "In terms of picking retro music for karaoke, do you think Nikki's more inclined toward Queen or Led Zeppelin?"... that rapt _look_ was still on his face.

Richard Castle was genuinely head-over-heels in love with her, Katherine Beckett, and now that she could see the truth she had always hoped to see, it was breathtaking and terrifying.

He looked at her curiously. "What?"

"I, uh, you heard me singing?" She face palmed. "Oh, God."

"No, no, it was great. You almost never sing in front of me. So, what do you think? Would Nikki pick _'Stairway to Heaven'_ or ' _We Will Rock You?'"_

"If it were me? _'Stormtrooper in Stilettos'_. If it were Nikki? _'Black Dog'_. All the way."

He beamed and went back to typing at dizzying speed. "Oh. Yeah! I can totally see her and Rook in a duet, in a biker bar. Black Dog it is."

"Glad I could help," she said. "Hey, about the muffins."

"Muffins?" he said absently, typing again.

"Sorry. Brioche. How long should they bake?"

"'Scuse me. Annnnd... save." He clicked his mouse and stood up, stretching, his shoulder joints cracking, the Tshirt shifting slightly up so she could see his bare, toned but not chiseled waistline, and the vertical line of hair below his navel.

He grunted. "Ugh. Getting old, Beckett. It sucks. The oven's 350 on convection, so let's check them at thirty, but probably till forty."

"Ok. What else can I help you with?" She headed into the kitchen and reset the timer.

He rummaged in a drawer and pulled out what looked to her like swim goggles, one pair in gray, the other in pink and purple. "Onion goggles here, if you want to finish making the guacamole."

"No, I'm fine. Those things look ridiculous."

He stopped and held her close again, sighed and breathed her in. "Wouldn't want anyone to think you'd been crying," he murmured. "And we don't want any pepper oil on those pretty little fingers of yours." He took her hands in his and, holding them up, kissed each fingertip. She reached around to the back of his neck and pulled him in for a gloriously hot smooch.

"You're killin' me here, Castle," she purred.

"We'll be dying together, then, sooner or later." He ducked away, checked a drawer, and found a box of disposable nitrile gloves.

"They're purple!" she laughed.

"No blue gloves for this household," he smirked. "I'd let you wear my gray goggles, but I have a really big head," he smirked, and put his own onion goggles on. She wore Alexis' little pink set, each of them utterly ridiculous with the ends of the headband flapping around their ears.

He rummaged around in cupboards and the pantry, pulling out all kinds of treats and arranging them on plates, trays, and in bowls. He took a good look at the pie and sighed - it had smashed during Dumpher's arrest, but it smelled wonderful. "I'll have to just slather that with whipped cream and serve it up at the end of the day."

"Good save," Kate said. He opened a can of plain black jumbo olives, put one on his pinky fingertip, and held it out to Kate while she chopped the onions finely. She popped it into her mouth, sucking on its salty roundness, and let her tongue flick against his finger tip. "I used to put those on my fingers when I was a kid."

"Anybody who didn't put olives on their fingers is just plain not human, and came from a pod hidden under the bed by aliens," Rick said.

"Did you?" she wiggled her fingers. "Or are you an alien?"

"Finally my secret has been revealed! I came from an olive-bereft planet, and I'm making up for lost time."

She got the guacamole out and stirred some minced onion in – just about a tablespoon, and Rick put the rest of the onion into a pan with a little oil, then threw in some sliced mushrooms, a dash of red wine, and a handful of herbs, salt and pepper, brought it to a quick sizzling boil then switched it off and left it to steam with a lid on.

Kate said, "What's that for?"

"The steaks. The catering staff's got those up on the roof."

Kate stopped in the middle of mincing the jalapeno. "Catering staff?"

"Yeah. They've been here since about nine. Eduardo sent them up while I was out at the market picking up last minute impulse cronuts, but all they had left was the holes. Then I ran into you. They've got all the drinks and most of the food up there. Do you like Argentine chimichirri steak...?"

"You hired caterers."

"Yes, Beckett. I'm expecting twenty people. Plus Steve will probably bring hookers and blow."

"WHAT?"

"Just kidding. It's an old joke. There was only one hooker, one time, but that was at Neil's house, and never any blow. At least, not that I know of."

"Castle, you hired caterers but you had me hang around doing laundry and rolling little balls?"

He glanced from one side to another, and stretched the word out into a guilty question. "Yesss?"

"Why?"

He grinned, and spread his arms wide, the headband of his onion goggles flapping crazily. "Beckett, you're still _here!_ "

She scowled. "Exactly my _point!_ "

He gave her a sunny grin. "Exactly _my_ point."

"You... told me you needed my help! You lured me... you..."

"I think you might want to put the knife down," he squeaked. "Before something really bad happens to my jalapeno."

She stabbed the knife into the cutting board, snapped off the goggles, and headed for the door.

Laser tag practice has its benefits. Rick was, to her amazement, quite a lot faster than he looked, and came around the kitchen island then vaulted over the back of a chair to land with a skid in front of her, blocking her way to the door. "Please, Beckett, don't."

"How could you manipulate me like that?"

"Because it's working?"

"You're just looking for an excuse to keep me here."

"Of course I am! And it's brilliant! You were looking for an excuse to come up, and you've been looking for an excuse to stay ever since you got here, and if you rub those eyes wearing those peppery gloves you're gonna need a trip to the hospital, and that way I'll get to hold you hostage for the rest of the day but we'll miss our party."

Kate stopped herself just in time and snapped the gloves off. "I should just give you a good poke in the eye and let you..."

"Turn the gloves inside out," he interrupted, ignoring the threat. "The oil gets everywhere."

"Well, I want to be anywhere but here." She threw the gloves on the floor. "I'm leaving."

He took off his goggles, and fired them like a giant rubber band. They bounced off the splashboard and neatly into the kitchen sink. Later, lying alone in her bed, trying to sleep, she was going to wonder how many times he'd practiced that. He was suddenly dead-serious, voice deep and eyes hooded, his body planted and immovable in front of the door. "That's what I told myself this morning. One last party, say goodbye to New York, and jump on a plane to California."

That really stopped her. "Goodbye?"

"I bought a house. Near San Francisco."

Her eyes smarted. She started to speak, then stopped, then rasped, "So you were gonna just hunt me down, see if you could get away with feeling me up, then leave for good?"

At this point he was very close to yelling at her. "I didn't hunt you down! I ran into you at _my_ local farmer's market which is _further_ from your place than the one in Tribeca. _"_

Kate blinked. That had not actually occurred to her, any more than it had previously occurred to her that even when he wasn't in town, she often seemed to find herself accidentally running past his building. It wasn't her fault he lived at an intersection with four corners.

"I was shopping for the party because I wanted to do a few extra things, because life is too _fucking_ _cold_ , okay? I divorced a woman with a stylist who picks out her clothes, and an interior decorator and a carb-free chef who pre-made and froze every meal we ate at home becaushe - because she didn't want a mess in the kitchen. You know, Gina was totally fine with watching other women go down on me because she didn't want to muss her own goddamn hair?" He stopped to catch his breath. "I didn't divorce her because we didn't love each other. We married because we were afraid to be alone, and we divorced because we were too scared to be ourselves with one another."

Kate bit her lip. "I'm not afraid to be alone."

"Neither am I. I've grown up enough to know I'd rather be alone than with the wrong person." He smiled, but it was a bitter thing. "I need a real _life_ , Kate. I was gonna move out and move on. I was gonna leave New York because _you_ are around every goddamn corner, and I hear _your_ voice in the wind and the traffic and the subway, and every street and alley has a crime scene waiting to happen, and I just can't stand it here without _you_..."

She had that "I-can't-handle-this" look on her face.

To her surprise, so did he. "So yes. I bought a house, and I was gonna leave and ship my shtuff over and make San Francisco my base instead of here, and let myself just be alone a while, someplace with no memories, to regroup. And..." his mouth twisted into something he wished could be a smile. "... and I ran into _you_ , of all people, and everything'sh turned on a dime again. Because you were out shopping for cucumbers and I needed something with a cream-filled middle just to get me through the goddamn day without imploding." He shook his head, as if disbelieving what he was about to say. "That's the Universe talking, Kate."

"Castle, I can't..."

He interrupted. "Oh, I know. You don't believe in fate and you don't like to be pressured. But this is what it comes down to, Kate. If you walk out on me now, that means you don't want me, and you'll be lying to both of us because I _know_ you _do_ , and I can't let myself fall in love with another coward, and I'm just as scared as you are. Does that even matter to you?"

"Yes," she breathed. She surged against him and knocked him back against the front door, took his face in her hands and stared into his bloodshot eyes. "It all matters." She was trying hard not to show the desperation she felt. "You should have told me sooner."

He grabbed her wrists. He was still angry. " _Bullshit_. You would have run. You were trying to run just now. Why am I bothering? What's it gonna take?"

She shook her head. "You're right. I am. I'm just scared."

"What are you afraid of, Kate? After all we've said today? You were nearly in tears twenty minutes ago, and now..."

She hung her head, sagging against him. He was strong enough to easily hold her up by her wrists, the grip tight but not cruel. She pulled back with her shoulders, her feet planted either side of his, and gritted, "I can't believe it will last. You are literally and figuratively all over the map, and I'm not ready for a relationship."

"Right. You do realize that's self-contradictory?"

"No it's...

He interrupted. "If you never let it happen, how do you know whether it will last or not? Well, guess what? It's already _lasted_ a year, give or take the time we've spent apart. We're already _in_ a relationship, Kate, _you_ just can't see it."


	10. HBSB ch 10: What They Didn't Hear

**Chapter 10**

Her lips formed a hard line, and she huffed a breath through flared nostrils, trying to scowl anywhere but at his face. "It's not going anywhere. It can't."

He released her wrists and slipped his hands up to cup them around her fists, and kissed the back of her knuckles, right where she might have punched him had she been able to hold onto the anger she employed every time fear reared its ugly head. She didn't try to pull away. She wanted to want to.

"Depends on how much we want it." His voice softened, not pleading, but reassuring. "We're right here, love. Tearing ourselves apart for the worst reason. But we have so many good reasons to pull together, just for once. Give each other one more chance."

She almost winced, as if dodging a blow. "Can we, uh, not limit it to one?"

His eyes dazzled her, but he wasn't smiling yet. "Two would be good..."

She looked at him sidelong, and almost squeaked it. "I'm so _bad_ at this."

"I know – me too!" he added hastily. "We might need to try, a lot. Three, 3.1415 nonrepeating, twelve, forty-two, elventy-one, as many as it takes. It might get old. So might we."

She'd been trying to avert her gaze, now it was full on, and he felt its warmth pour into him like a hot toddy on a cold day. "So, it doesn't have to be perfect the first time." This seemed to be a new concept to her, and it occurred to him that her perfectionism, which made her police work so brilliant, might hurt her when it came to letting others see her vulnerabilities.

He stroked strong, comforting hands from her wrist to elbow then up to her shoulders. "Is anything ever perfect?"

A smile of realization gleamed slowly across her face like dawn light spreading. "No. But..." she canted her hips toward him and laced hands around the back of his neck. "Yes."

She leaned in and kissed him softly, and he softly returned it, then their lips opened and the last vestige of control or reservation snapped in both of them. He growled low in the back of his throat, and pressed his thigh up, rock-hard and muscular between hers, catching her weight, and she was thrilled to land there and ride for all she was worth. She cupped her hands around the back of his skull, he gripped her lower back, rubbing up and down in long, sensuous strokes. The house phone rang, and they were kissing, their mouths hot and sweet with ardor, so they didn't really notice Eduardo's voice leaving a message. _"Mr. Castle, there's a Mr. King here to see you. Shall I send him up?"_

Two minutes later, the phone rang again. _"Mr. Castle, Ms... I'm sorry, what was your name, Ma'am? Grafton. Ms. Grafton here to see you. Shall I send her up, or give them a seat in the foyer?"_ Castle didn't notice this at all, because he had his hands up inside the front of his old Queen T-shirt, and Kate's soft-firm, pointy-round cupcake-sweet breasts put every brioche ever made to shame. Kate didn't notice either because Castle's hands were so big and so warm and so very gentle, sliding and twisting and rolling on her skin like an otter playing on a waterfall, the soft brushing finger pads and the hard, hard knuckles drumming and the wide, firm palms kneading the muscles, gentling the bones.

A minute after that came another phone call, and Castle's phone also buzzed in his back pocket. This he also didn't notice, because now neither he nor Beckett was wearing a shirt, and she was riding his leg with her hipbone pressed deliciously against his groin, and his tongue was circling her right nipple while his fingers brushed and gently pinched the left. She feathered her fingers across his flat tan nipples and the sparse hair on his chest, and she forgot every word but "Ohhhhh."

About 45 seconds later, they did not hear the ding of the elevator door down the hall, because he had his hands down his own pants, no, they were The Pants Formerly Known as Rick's, and he was digging those palms into her glutes, and they were kissing again, and she was gasping against her own wetness, and he was possibly even harder than he'd been before the French clowns escaped the Nash earlier in the day.

Twenty seconds after that, five guests in the hallway heard a thud and a gasp, and the door lurched slightly on its hinges. This was because Rick and Kate had flipped, and he had her back up against the door, and was yanking the pants down around her ankles without even needing to unbutton them because they were just loose enough. The door shuddered again when she leaned back against it and he knelt before her, and she slung a foot up onto his broad and manly shoulder, and he kissed his way from breast to belly and on down, intoxicated by the sight and the scent and the feel of her.

Thirty seconds after that, he was rearranging her entire universe from a cramped little lonely box into a field of comets in orbit, an elllllipticalllll orbit, oh, yes, as she clenched and shivered under his ministrations. Elliptical has all those extra Ls because of that thing he was doing with his oh, my god, his tongue and the lower lip and the upper lip and the soft, gently scratchy, lacy-feeling beard and yes, andyes, the tickle. Elllipppiticccallll.

Outside in the hallway, twelve authors and one comic book illustrator stood together, puzzled, listening to the sound of a woman moaning on the other side of the door. _Thud._

Terry said, "Do you suppose Castle's acting out a murder scene?"

"Hard to say," said Andy.

The elevator came back up again, and the next author, who was a Hobbit fan, peered happily over his white beard at the crowd on Castle's doorstep and observed, "I see they have begun to arrive already," then nerd-snortled at his own clever in-joke, which nobody bothered to laugh at because he'd said it at every single salon for the last twenty years. He took out his phone cam. "Anyone else recording this?"

"George, you are such a little perv!" said Ursula. "Put that away or I'll pop you one." She was the oldest writer there aside from Dorothy, and really, you don't want to mess with either of them.

Dan said, "I have the most brilliant idea. Maybe we should just go up on the roof and see if they've tapped the keg yet." They trooped off down the hall.

Dorothy glanced back at George. "Come on, George. It's none of your beeswax."

Beckett and Castle didn't hear them because she'd stopped him, half-dragged him to the living room, and was sitting on the clear tempered glass coffee table, leaving a little smear mark in the shape of an iris bud. She snaked one slim hand up the leg of his canvas shorts and cupped silken weight through silkier boxers, then raked her short, groomed nails over the rough fabric, eliciting a shudder and hiss.

The timer for the brioche went off, and neither Castle nor Beckett heard its loud, insistent beeping through the next minute, focusing instead on the sound of her pulling his zipper down and her pulling both shorts and boxers down to his ankles, and her low, appreciative chuckle.

"Well," she said. "It appears I went to the right produce stand after all." For a minute the beeper went silent, and the only thing one could hear in that room was the sound of music from the roof through the skylight, but they didn't notice that, either, because she could not grasp anything beyond her hands and his everything and his gasp and his moan and his rumbled, "Oh, Kate. Yes, Hard, like that."

A minute later the brioche timer started its beeping again, but neither heard that because now he was on his back on the rug (the couch was really too narrow) with his gracilis muscles cradling her ears, and he had his head on one of the scatter cushions with his jaws bracketed by the sweet satin of her thighs, her hips poised over his smiling face. "God, I love this view," he sighed. He was headed for fucking ecstasy, and he fully intended to take her with him when he got there, but not too soon.

The brioche timer stopped, then started beeping again as a reminder a minute later, but they didn't notice, and they didn't notice more knocking, nor the doorbell, nor a key in the door. All they could hear was their own breathing and the roar of their hearts, their bucking hips matching in rhythm, still slow but no longer gentle, hotter than nuclear fission, pressure building like a dirty, dirty bomb.

They didn't notice Martha tiptoe in with the flat of her hand acting like blinders against the view on the other side of the sofa back (all she could see was a woman's long foot, the toes curling as a man's large hand (presumably Richard's clenched her ankle.) The man's voice - definitely Richard's - grunted, "Wider. That's... _mpfh_." Martha almost-silently whispered, "Don't mind me...!"

They were too enthralled (and that is the word because they had both become slaves bent on their mutual ecstasy) to notice her heels click on the polished floor. Martha tottered to the oven, opened the door, grabbed a pot holder, yanked out a perfect pan of golden brioche, set it on the counter, turned off the timer, hurried back toward the front door, stumbled on a blue nitrile glove ("Ugh! Oh, dear!"), recovered her balance, and scurried out of the loft, swearing silently to herself. And nobody saw her shut that door behind her, lock it, and sashay over to the elevator, laughing her head off. Rick and Kate certainly would have been mortified, had they noticed, but it was a secret Martha took to her grave, and they never even thought to ask.

No, there was too much on their... minds. Rick's focus was divided between what he could do to the outside of Kate's body, and what he could do to the inside of Kate's body, and what Kate's mouth was doing to him.

They still didn't notice the sound of music, conversation, and occasional laughter drifting down through the skylight from the party on the rooftop. This was because Kate was panting a stream of obscenities in English, French, Russian, and Serbian during those moments when her mouth and lips were not stretched to their maximum. He was, just for fucking once, utterly lost for words other than ' _Ah!'._ They had come to a frenzied pace, racing their own heartbeats, and then she went still, arcing down into him like a double rainbow of joy. She screamed his name, over and over (it did sound rather like ' _asshole!_ _'_ come to think of it) but it was hard to tell with all her lips spread wide and utterly and compleltly oh god full ah those fingers and mouhth and sucked so hrad, so deepley, so fiercilely, that I cant' even rementmbor how to spell it how it feeled anymsore;m an he ellipseded into her like a tousnand clowns being oh, holy hotshot out of a canon and neighther one new wicht was Rate and rich saw Castkett Kake because oh words not none there are, Chaucer coulda nere writ so well the bright fier of theyre wholly transport.*

Whew.

Kate collapsed down onto his body, her hips on his chest and her cheek resting on his inner thigh, one hand wrapped around the back of his right knee and the other firmly gripping the instep of his other foot. She sighed and closed her eyes with a happy hum and a wiggle, and they lay there for a while, just breathing. She felt him yawn beneath her. He patted out a soft rhythm on her perky little bottom and croaked, "Roll over."

She did so gingerly, her upper body supported by his knees like a lounge chair, her bent knees lolling, her feet somewhere around the top of his head, her sweet-tart center fully exposed to his appreciative gaze. He wiped his face on the back of his right forearm. "Mmmm. Center of the universe."

She reached out to his hands, spreading his fingers, and they interlaced, but he couldn't sit up enough to kiss her knuckles. He grinned at her. His short beard looked a little sticky and there was a thread of blue denim lint stuck in his front teeth. "I envy your gynecologist."

Her hair was a disaster, her lips (on both counts) still swollen. She blinked sleepily at him. "I like you a lot better than Dr. Pomatter."

"Dr. Pomatter? Goofy name."

"He is a little goofy. And he's almost as cute as you are. But I like you a lot more."

"I like you, too. C'mere." He pulled her upright and she flailed around, crunching down on his chest a little (Ow!) and they laughed, then she scooted down (accidentally bumping him with her knee) ("Ow! Careful! I'd like to have another kid someday!") until she was lying with her head on his chest.

She said, 'It smells so good in here. Brioche and mushrooms and jalapenos. Who knew?"

"I think it's the sex," he said dreamily. His eyes had drifted closed. "Tired. Drove down at 4 a.m."

"Aww, poor baby," she cooed.

He grinned, absolutely loving that. "Timer should go off any minute, then we can bring the brioche up to the roof. I think somebody might be up there."

Kate finally noticed the music. It wasn't Kenny G. "You think your guests miss you?"

"I'm usually late. I'm sure Eduardo just sent them straight up. They know to make themselves at home."

"mkay."

Without intending to, they drifted into a short nap, with Rick's phone buzzing periodically in his shorts pocket somewhere on the other side of the coffee table, and a delicate little snore from Kate's very delicate little nose. The dryer stopped contributing its white noise to the symphony, and let out a discreet chime to indicate its cycle had finished. They didn't even twitch.

* * *

 **END CHAPTER 10**

 _A/N  
*I'll never read Joyce again. That sex scene nearly killed them._ **  
**


	11. HBSB ch 11: Dressing Up & Coming Down

**Dressing Up and Coming Down**

 **CHAPTER 11**

A bit later, a clink of glass from the party upstairs awoke Kate, who now found herself uncomfortably warm topside and downside, and somewhat glued, by a shared film of sweat, to the man of her heretofore unfulfilled dreams. She straightened her elbows to look down at her sleeping lover, stretched out magnificently nude, yet somehow innocent in sleep, with sun from the skylight overhead glowing amber on his skin, and she understood the reason why her back felt so toasty. His still-damp hair stuck out in all directions, and he was smiling faintly. Other than a few lines around his eyes and the distinguished streaks of white whiskers on either side of his beard, just below Those Dimples, he looked younger than she felt (27, tops). She climbed off him carefully and whispered, "I have to pee." He didn't stir, and she realized he must have gotten up very early indeed that morning, considering he'd driven in from the Hamptons. " _Aww. Just sleep, you've had a hell of a day. My … love."_

She smiled at the thought, then cast about, hesitating. She hadn't been in his downstairs bathroom yet. Having had boyfriends before and knowing it was very likely a disaster area, she decided that might best be broached in his company. So she went upstairs to the guest bathroom, used the toilet and cleaned up a little. Because of the nature of their activities, which are actually rather low-friction, she wasn't at all sore, just pleasantly throbbing and damp. (Truth be told, it wouldn't have been at all difficult for her to go for another round.) (Another round would have possibly been an unfair request. He wasn't nineteen anymore and needed a bit of recovery time.) But they both had places to be. She frowned at herself in the mirror and tried to rearrange the roadkill porcupine that had taken place of her hair. In the end she gave up, fished her used towel out of the hamper, and took a speed-shower just to rinse off and re-set her brain.

Rick awoke suddenly, in a panic, missing her warmth and weight, sure she'd left. "No!" But then he scanned the room and was comforted by her trail of clothes on the floor, her bag of dicks on the counter, the pan of brioche cooling on the metal stove top. He guessed she must have been awakened by the timer. He sighed in relief, and called out, "Kate?"

He went halfway up the stairs and heard her singing falsetto in the shower:

 _"Hey black dog, say the way you move  
gonna make you sweat  
gonna make you groove...  
Hey hey baby when you move that way  
watch your honey drip, can't keep ah-wayy..."_

and then the guitar in her throaty alto:

" _NananananaNa na nalalala nana nahna nananala..."_

Never mind that she had the words mostly wrong, it was adorable. Castle came up a few more steps to listen, then shook his head. "Oh, Jimmy Page would roll in his grave if he were already dead," he murmured. Giggling to himself, he left her in peace and went to his own ensuite bathroom. He rinsed off, shampooed his beard, combed his hair, and put on clean shorts and boxers, but held off on a shirt for the time being. He was still a bit on the warm side.

She padded back downstairs wrapped in her towel, and saw that the sofa was empty – most likely he'd gone to do the same as she. So she went for the dryer and reached in, gathering all the warm clothes against her, then laid them out on the sorting table. She folded the two watermelon shirts and set them aside, and Rick's formerly eggy shirt. Then she glanced around instinctively, about to take her towel off, and there was Castle, leaning in the doorway, shirtless and yummy, watching her. He was holding a little bundle of clothes.

She jumped a little. "Jeez, staring much?"

He wasn't even smirking. Rather, almost sad. "How can I help it?"

The longing in his face struck her to the core, but she shrugged and grinned. "Then you don't have to. Stare away." She turned her back and untucked her towel, but used it to shield her body from his eyes. She purred in a throaty Russian accent, "Sorry, big boy, this not much striptease." She angled the towel to bare one perky little brioche, then hid that and bared the other one. "In Russia, all we get to take off is towel."

He obviously appreciated her effort to cheer him up, letting out a long wolf-whistle and imitating an old-style car horn: "Awooooh-ga!"

She laughed, and somewhere in the near distance, a clown car revved its 2-stroke engine, and his eyes sparked.

He said, "Last May, I came thisclose," he mimed a little pinch, "to sending you a Towel day photo."

"Towel Day?" her brow wrinkled.

 _"Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy?"_

"Never got around to reading it."

He rose up on his toes in excitement. "Oh, Beckett, if your well-concealed affection for me is actually real, you're obligated to read that book. You're definitely one of those people who always knows where their towel is... my God, then there's Dirk Gently..."  
She rolled her eyes, but it made her smile. He was _such_ a book nerd.

But then he pursed his lips in frustration. "I'm so sorry. I really do need to get upstairs soon. Want to come with?"

"No. I really should get home. I'll just get dressed." She set her towel down on the folding table, then looked at it, wondering whether she could get away with borrowing it for the rest of her life.

"Well, in that case," he said softly. He walked toward her, set his old clothes on the table, and picked up her clean, still-warm-from-the-dryer, cream lace panties. "Let's put it on. Let's put it all on." He knelt before her and looked up at her with a smile that would have melted a quart of raspberry sorbet in a Finnish ice hotel in February. He held the panties by the hip elastic. She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned on him (not at all that she needed to, simply because she _could_ ) as she stepped in. He glided the panties up her legs, gently kissed the faint but large bruise on her outer thigh. "I didn't notice that before."

"Neither did I, really. It doesn't hurt much."

"Good. I could ice it?"

"Right now I want it warm."

"Warm is good." He kissed her mound and teased underneath with the quickest slip of his tongue. She gasped. He grinned. "Don't forget how that feels, Kate."

"I will _never_ forget how that feels." She stroked his thick, soft hair with both hands, her inner arms squeezing her breasts together to emphasize the cleavage, nipples semi-erect and kissable. He blew a gentle, tickly raspberry on her belly, then settled the silky garment over her hips and bottom, slid a finger along the panties' leg opening and across her nearly-flat abdomen.

"Just right," he said softly.

Then he stood and bent to kiss her collarbones, and her now-hard nipples with dry, satiny lips so that her clothes wouldn't stick to damp skin. He kissed over her heart, the perfect, unblemished skin. Neither knew at that time it was exact spot where, eight months in the future, he would press his hand and beg the life-blood not to flow out between his fingers. No matter, it was already a precious place to him. He kissed down to her solar plexus, then slowly up her throat again, below her ears, and the beauty mark on her cheek. He gently placed the sweetest, most loving kiss on her mouth. She sighed, because he felt so warm and close and right, and she closed her eyes and returned his kiss with the edge of a sob in her breath.

He picked up her sports bra – a heather-gray Lycra compression garment with about as much glamor as a resistance band – and chuckled. "Not sure you need this," he said.

"I'll probably take a cab home. But all the same, not crazy about bouncing all over Manhattan," she breathed. Nobody looks glamorous or graceful or sexy putting on a sports bra, but somehow his nearness and his gaze made her feel all those things, and something more: cherished. She held her hands above her head.

She looked up, and watched the muscles in his arms tense as he stretched the bra open, then expanded it down past her hands and elbows. It was a little clumsy, without the leverage of being inside the elastic's boundaries. He grimaced. "I hate these things." His ribcage brushed her nipples.

She gasped again. "Necessary evil. Keep the girls out of my way."

"My conviction about hosting this party is seriously beginning to waver," he rumbled, about two hours too late. "Your arms must be getting tired."

"Oh, I could go all day." She pressed her hips against his, their naked torsos aligning, the skin so warm. "But I gotta go, Castle." She helped him pull the bra down past her head. He settled it over her breasts, which as mentioned previously, _really_ didn't need it, but if anyone was going to be watching Kate Beckett's tits bouncing when she ran, that would have to be him. He confirmed it, palming her breasts possessively, then he slipped a tender finger underneath the elastic around her ribs to smooth the ridge where it had folded under.

Then he turned to the table, put one hand on his old jeans, and another on the yoga leggings she'd worn while running. "Your choice," he said.

"The jeans," she murmured.

He nodded, his eyes dilating, and purred, "They'll still be a little wet."

"I know. And you'll know. All day."

 _Twitch._ "That I will." He undid the brass buttons with a flick of his thumb (I am not the sort of person to endorse a brand, but the buttons on a pair of vintage Levis 501s have magical properties, like that Elvish rope in LOTR that holds a knot faithfully until you tell it to let go.) He was kneeling again, the jeans pooled open, and she stepped in as before. He leaned in and kissed her mound again, palming it through her panties, then kissed her belly for the last time, then pulled those soft blue jeans up to the top of her hipbones, and fastened the five brass buttons, and circled her navel with his tongue.

He stood up, his knee creaked, and he winced. "You're on your own with the shoes and socks," he chuckled.

She grinned. "I think I can manage."

He kissed her ribcage goodbye (actually he said "Au revoir"), then helped her get into her tank top, then kissed over her heart, hating the fabric that kept him at a tiny distance.

"Now," he said. "You think the tank top's enough to wear home?"

"I heard the afternoon might be cooling off," she replied.

"Choose a shirt."

She picked up the Captain Canada shirt, considered, then set it down. "This one's too big, but it's cute."

"Cute?" he winced.

"Handsome. Attractive. You should wear it..." she placed a palm over his heart, her fingers raying out like a sun over his pecs. "But not right away." She kissed his chest, then tilted her face up, and they kissed again. "Hm... The watermelon shirt implies a certain blithe, I-don't-give-a-fuck ironic sense of humor."

He nodded. "Or a simple love of fresh produce."

"Vive ton concombre," she said, and palmed him, and he groaned. Somewhere beneath a circus trap door, several million clowns started rehearsing for their next performance. It was insanely pleasant, but the Nash wouldn't be ready for a few hours just yet.

He nodded, and his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. She held the shirt warm between them, and pressed against him, taking the time to kiss his chest, his throat, his shoulders, his belly, down the sensitive insides of his arms and wrists, his palms. By the time she'd worked him over, he had goosebumps, and felt the ghost of her lips all over him. She picked up the larger of the two watermelon shirts, and helped him put it on. "Secret club. Nobody will ever guess what it takes to be a member."

"They might." He helped her put the smaller one on, and said, "You have the nicest melons in the world, Beckett." His wandering palms cupped those little melons, just to be sure she understood, and also because they were there, and he could.

She nodded. "And I'm nowhere near done with your cucumber." She palmed his manhood again, in a cozy, affectionate way, and with a rumble something like a lion's purr, he leaned his head on her shoulder, wrapping her in his arms.

"I don't want you to go," he sighed.

She hugged him back. "But we both have things to do, and we've both done each other, so," she shrugged. "Onward."

He reluctantly released his hold on her, his hand lingering on her shoulder then sliding down to rub her lower back, which felt divine. She pulled her socks on (he'd washed those, too) and then picked up the Freddie shirt, hugging it to herself for a moment, then to his surprise, held it to her nose and inhaled it, then up to his. "It smells like us," she whispered, oddly shy. She took his hand. "Can you show me your room?"

He blushed. "I can't believe we never even made it to the bed. Wait. My _room_?"

"Don't get your hopes up, I just... can I see it?"

"Sure." He took her hand and led her there, and she hid her gentle amusement at his peculiar, eager shyness.

She glanced around, surprised at its neatness, its generally adult masculinity, and its very... aggressive lion photo. "I'd expected a mess."

"I'm not naturally this neat on my own, but... I don't want to make the housekeeper's life a living hell."

Kate smirked at him, trying desperately to hide the wholesale meltdown of her heart. She surveyed the bed. "Which side do you sleep on?"

He rasped, "Left. If you're in it. Right if you're facing it. Thish side," he pointed. If she were to sit on it, to lie back on it, to lay her head on his pillow and put her arms out to him, open her legs - and he could see it in his mind's eye with utter clarity - he would not be able to either resist her desire, or completely fulfill it. For about another hour, he figured. He started considering the possibilities, one of which involved a peeled parsnip, a condom, and a couple ounces of Astro-Lube.

She lifted the top of the comforter and slipped the Freddie T-shirt beneath it to rest on the pillow.

"There," she said. "So much better than hookers and blow. Sweet dreams tonight."

"I don't think I'm gonna sleep much."

She patted his butt. "Metrosexual playboy authors need their beauty sleep."

He nodded. "I'll try." He was trying not to look bereft, and failing miserably.

It was up to her to get out of there without both of them either naked or in tears. "Okay!" She patted her hands together. "So I'm gonna take off, you're gonna add the jalapenos to the guacamole and go hang out with the Dread Authors Society."

He nodded with little enthusiasm.

She continued, trying to keep her voice cheerful. "You're flying out in the morning, and, uh," her voice cracked. "We'll stay in touch, right?"

He nodded again, this time trying to smile. "I promise." He went to the house phone and, ignoring the flashing light that indicated twelve messages, picked up the receiver and told her, "Don't bother hailing a cab. I'll have a town car pick you up. He glanced at the clock. "Holy shit, it's 12:53?"

"Wow. Where did the morning go?" She put her shoes on (she'd left them by the front door) then came into the kitchen for her produce bag, which smelled like mashed banana. She glanced at the brioche pan. Twenty-one of them were like perfect little rounded titties. Two looked like mutant ducklings who'd gone through a hurricane and were turned into bread by a merciful bread-god whose sole purpose was to rescue ducks from storms. (The Duck Bread God had one job. It had not gone well.) And the twenty-fourth was missing. She tapped the empty pan with a smirk. "Helped yourself when I wasn't looking, did you? Not that I blame you. They look great."

He shrugged. "We make a good team. You want to try one?"

She chuckled. "That's okay. I just ate."

He laughed, "That you did!" and they hugged again, hard, then grabbed her folded leggings, which she popped into her produce bag, and he walked her out the door to the elevator. She pushed the button, and they kissed again.

She gazed at him deeply with those kaleidoscope eyes, which were currently sad moss-green with little brown flecks. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you, too. And I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Just for a visit?"

"That depends," he said quietly. "I just need to find someplace that feels like home."

Wow. She couldn't say it though: _'Me too'._ "Look, I'm sure there are a lot of factors. Maybe you do need a change of setting. If you do decide to give up the loft... when you come to New York, maybe you could... still visit me? I mean, not just at the Precinct. Although I know everyone would be happy to see you."

He chuckled. "You don't have a guest room, do you?"

She bit her lip, grinned, and shook her head. "Nnnope."

"Kate," he cupped her jaw in his hand. "Like I shaid - said before, I want a real life."

"I know. And you really messed up my hair." She smiled through her tears. "And that made me so... happy. Dammit, Castle," she lamented. "Here I go." She pressed a palm over her lower face, hard, trying not to cry.

The elevator car opened and three world famous and mega-rich authors stepped out (Tony wrote about food, the Other Andrew wrote about travel, and the lady with the chihuahua in a little jeweled carrier vest wrote books with shirtless men and horses on the cover). They took one look at Kate and Rick in their matching watermelon shirts, and busted up laughing. Fortunately Kate had her back to the elevator and they didn't really see her face, which set hard, her shoulders sharp as a coat hanger.

"Ha, good one, Ricky," said the lady. "You'll be on Page Six Monday morning, but if you're lucky, nobody will be in town to read it."

He looked down at his own shirt and plucked at the hideous red fabric. "I'll just be glad if the photos are in black and white instead of color," he grinned, and Kate could only barely see the tension concealed under his veneer of polite joviality. "Wouldn't want to burn anybody's retinas. Hey, can you guysh head into the kitchen and grab the extra food? I just need to finish making the guacamole."

"Oh, is that what they call it now?" said the Other Andrew.

The authors passed Rick and Kate. Tony snickered, "Nice beard. You're starting to look like the Slightly Shorter Lebowski, there, Rick."

"Tell that to Joel and Ethan, maybe they'll cast me in a sequel," Rick chuckled. He ushered them into the loft and closed the door after them. They barely heard the Other Andrew say, "Holy shit, it smells like a whorehouse kitchen in here."

They kissed one last time, then held still for a long hug, a slightly tighter embrace, then their moorings loosed and she felt herself floating away from him.

His smile looked like a bird with a broken wing, only one side working. "Don't be a stranger, Beckett."

She nodded and waved goodbye. Their eyes locked, full of uncertainty warring with hope, as the doors slid closed.

* * *

Downstairs, Eduardo smiled politely and said, "I'm glad everything is all right, Miss Beckett."

Not sure exactly what either he or she meant, she said, "Yes. Fine."

"See you soon, I hope?"

"Yeah. I hope so, too."

He hesitated. "Mr. Castle's a good guy, in't he?"

Kate nodded, looking outside for her town car. "I think so."

Eduardo glanced over at the elevator, then through the glass front of the lobby's vestibule. "I shouldn't say nothin'."

She looked him full in the face. "I don't know, should you?"

Eduardo bit his lip. "I seen him come and go a lot, since I came to work here. Fall of '96."

"I know you do a good job."

He shrugged a little. "I keep a lot of stuff, you know, quiet."

 _Jeez, man, get on with it._ "But?"

"I seen him sad and happy and mad and nervous and late and early and you know, there been Ms Meredith an' Ms Gina and, you know, girls." He corrected himself. "Ladies."

Kate nodded. "I was under that impression."

Eduardo fidgeted with the pen on his desk. There was a book for signing in, and the morning had apparently been busy; there were six catering staff and eighteen guests signed in with the rooftop as their destination. "Alls I know is he walks outta here this morning with that cart at 8:17 a.m, and he's sad as hell, you know. An' he comes back in here with you at 9:48, lookin' happy as I ever seen him."

"I see," said Kate.

"Nobody don't look that happy just from buyin' melons, Ma'am. Not even matchin' tee shirts. You know?"

Kate couldn't conceal her grin, and she didn't think it was appropriate to tell Eduardo that she'd been shopping for cucumbers, not melons. All she could say was, "I think I do. Know. Thanks. Here's my car now, I think."

"Take care, Detective. See you soon."

"You too." Kate smiled, waved, and hurried out.

* * *

The car approached the Soho farmer's market on the way back to Kate's apartment, and she saw Frank and Manuela's tent still up, although nearly everyone else had cleared out. They were struggling to load boxes of unsold produce into the back of their van. Frank was obviously in pain, and Manuela looked tired, little Renaldo crying at her back (he was probably more than ready to get out of the back pack and stretch his legs after nap time).

Kate spoke to the driver. "Hey, can you let me off here?"

The driver nodded. "Sure, if you like."

"Thanks. I'm sorry, I don't have any cash to tip you." She reached into her bag of produce and found... a little surprise packet, in a zippered plastic bag: a Cornish pasty, the AWOL brioche, a couple of cronut holes, and a glossy-looking donut bar that probably had raspberry custard in it, and something that looked rather like a Chinese baked pork bun. There was a piece of note paper tucked into the baggie, too. But she left that for the time being and pulled out three Gravenstein apples. "But these are amazing," she smiled apologetically.

The driver smiled in surprise. "Thanks, I haven't had lunch yet." He didn't care about the tip so much. Mr. Castle kept his service on retainer.

Kate popped out of the car and hurried to the Rooty Tootie Veg and Fruity booth, and picked up a crate of mixed root vegetables. It was, indeed, heavier than it looked. She said cheerfully, "Hey, there, you guys need a hand?" and didn't stop to take no for an answer. "Frank, you just direct me and we'll get you guys of here in no time."

She was as good as her word. Frank and Manuela just shrugged at each other and exchanged a weary smile, and together the two women loaded the crates into the truck while Frank took the fussy Renaldo into the coffee house restroom for an overripe diaper change.

While they were working, Manuela gave Kate a conspiratorial smile. "So, Richard Castle, huh?"

Kate's face went beet-red. She shrugged a little. "I was surprised to see him. We're not dating."

"Oh, I know," said Manuela. "But you will be, if he has anything to say about it."

"Really." Kate tried, and failed, to suppress a smile. She stacked some crates onto a chipped green hand cart, and rolled it up the ramp into the back of the truck.

"Mhmm." Manuela helped her place them. "Keep it tight, we'll rope 'em in after it's full up. Ugh. Beets might as well be made of cement."

"They're heavy, all right."

"Man, Ricky came by a couple minutes before you showed up, he was talkin' about leaving town, sayin' his goodbyes, looked just... man, I was a little worried. And he's about to leave without buyin' much, which isn't like him. Then he's all, "Oh my God, is that..." but he doesn't finish, and for a second he looks all scared like he's seen a ghost or something. I guess he catches sight of you down the way."

"He didn't look happy?"

"Nope. And he does this thing..." Manuela ruffled her hand through her bangs, just as Rick would do, "and then he's got this idea, I guess. His face!" she gave a huge, shit-eating grin, and Kate imagined a light bulb going off over Castle's head. She laughed.

Manuela went on. "He looks, all, oh my god, looks just like a kid or something. And he starts to say something to me, but nothing comes out!" she giggled. "I thought he was gonna blow a gasket. So then he pays for his stuff and takes off running, and I'm all like, okay, whatever, buddy!"

Kate rolled the handcart back down the ramp, and they stacked another three crates, with her listening while Manuela chattered on. "I guess he goes sneaking off to a coffee shop, and when you come into my booth, you and me are just talking, and," her hand pressed over her heart, "I don't expect him back, but here he comes all happy, and you're just pickin' out carrots like nothing's goin' on behind you. So you really didn't know he was there?"

"No! I thought he was in the Hamptons. With his ex." Kate couldn't help her lips pursing in disgust.

"Oh, _that_ bottle-blonde bitch," Manuela snickered. She raised her voice into a recognizable imitation of Gina's: _"This has a brown spot. Have these been sprayed? What if there's bugs in it. Oh, my god, Richard, this carrot is crooked, how can you even buy this stuff?"_

Kate laughed uncertainly. "So they come here a lot?"

"Oh, _hell_ no! He brought her here once a few years ago, before Letty was born." Kate knew Letty, who was going on four years old. Manuela continued as they rolled the next handcart up the ramp. "I never forget a picky customer, I just love making fun of them. Especially the snobs." She grinned. "He may be loaded, but he's no snob. Snobs don't sing "Itsy Bitsy Spider" to Puerto Rican toddlers when their mommy's busy making change. All the vendors like him, and it's not just cause he throws his cash around."

Kate grinned. "I thought for a minute he was just straight-up hitting on you."

"Oh, Honey. He's just friendly. If you don't know the difference between friendly and flirting, you gotta pay more attention."

"But you just played along when I showed up?"

"Sure! He's a sweetie. And I'd been hoping he'd buy those peaches. And I noticed you sure didn't pass on that coffee he bought you."

Kate wrinkled her nose. "I just realized I left the other cup behind."

"Tossed it. Hope you don't mind."

"No, it was ..." she shuddered.

"Swill. But overpriced swill, so it must be hella great swill. Haha, not! Okay, that's the last of the crates, can you help me with the tables?" Kate and Manuela folded up the two 8' tables, chairs, and the signage, stowed them, and took the tent down. Kate hadn't operated one before and cursed silently when ("Oh, Kate, watch your... Oh, sorry!") her fingers jammed in the scissor-folding metal braces.

"Ow! Oh. I see." She figured it out quickly and it was a mistake she wouldn't repeat.

When they'd finished loading, Frank had reappeared, walking slowly with Renaldo in his arms. "Thanks, Kate, you're a lifesaver." Manuela grabbed the broom and started sweeping up.

Frank said, "Here. Load up. Help yourself!" He tried to hand her a few baggies and pointed to the crates of produce.

"Oh, no, that's okay," Kate said. "I'll have trouble using up everything I already bought."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. It's no big deal."

"Well, thanks!" Frank said. "Next time it's on the house."

Kate shrugged and grinned. "You're sweet. Thanks."

Manuela hugged her, and little Renaldo waved merrily. "DA!"

"See you next time!" Kate dreamily strolled the twenty blocks to her place, stopping to window-shop at a lingerie boutique, a bakery (the baguettes looked very appealing but she had enough carbs to last the weekend) and an antique shop. She stepped in to a small, adorable florist shop - Charlie's Floral Fantasy - and checked out some teddy-bear sunflowers three times the price of those that Castle had bought for Alexis, and that she had destroyed taking down Dumpher. She knew she had no cash with her, so she wandered out again and headed home, thinking. On arrival, she used the combination keypad to get into her building, and it wasn't until she came to her own apartment door that she realized her key was somewhere in Castle's loft.

 **END CHAPTER 11**


	12. HBSB CH 12: Soho and Tribeca

_Dear Guest:  
Regarding your question about what actually happened in Chapter 10: Within this venue, I really can't explain it in further detail. I'm sure your vivid imagination will supply further satisfactory details. Or you can just enjoy the mystery.  
;-) _

* * *

**CHAPTER 12**

 **SOHO**

After the three authors trooped out to the elevator with items from the farmer's market, Rick took a moment to listen to his phone messages in private. He stood there, taking notes, one minute furious with Gina and Paula, the next moment concerned for poor Eduardo as he herded the authors around the building. He listened in surprise when Edwardo left a message, "Ms. Rodgers is on her way up. She told me no need to announce her but I thought you, uh, might want to know."

"Huh," Rick said to the Beckett in his head, who was sitting on the kitchen island wearing nothing but a smile. "I wonder why she never came in. Maybe she just went straight up to the roof."

Kate-in-Rick's-head said, _"I hope she didn't see anything. Jeez, I hope she didn't hear anything."_

Then Nikki was sitting on the kitchen counter next to Kate. She was wearing some very slutty lingerie and drinking a Margarita. She just winked at Rick and said, _"What you don't know won't hurt you, Jameson."_

Rick shook them both out of his head and gave some thought to his morning's adventures with Kate at the Farmer's Market. Since they'd made the arrest, it seemed likely that someone would have uploaded some photos or video of him and Kate to the internet. He took a few moments and perused the results. For most people, seeing their appearance on video is a jarring surprise, and Rick was no exception. In his depressed-surfer-summer scruffiness, he barely resembled the Richard Castle people saw on the backs of book jackets. For all anyone knew, the man who helped Kate make the arrest was that dude from The Walking Dead. With any luck, even Ryan and Esposito might not recognize him. He hadn't seen Alexis or his mother since a small family party at the Hamptons on July 4th. So maybe the gossip mill wouldn't start turning his life upside down.

He watched one video that caught an angle on the whole thing, doubtless taken by the mushroom guy across the aisle. Castle turning to talk to the 4H mom behind the egg table. Beckett falling with a table of olives crashing around her. Castle tripping up Dumpher and holding a sunflower to the suspect's back. Beckett cuffing the suspect. Castle crawling around on an extremely dirty New York Sidewalk, picking up Scary Prostitute Things with a pair of tongs... and then the Fighting Fourteenth showing up to save the day.

He called Paula. "Hey. I don't want any spin on the farmer's market thing this morning. If anyone contacts you, I want you to say it wasn't me. I was out of town."

"Why? I mean, Ricky, this is golden..."

"No, it's not. It's embarrassing. I was covered with egg and hadn't shaven in a few weeks. I haven't had a haircut since June. I haven't plucked any grays out since July!"

"But you helped Detective Beckett make an arrest again! This is big news!"

"It is not. It was some lady on drugs who misplaced a walnut. Beckett stepped in when she was off duty, and making a fuss about it is an invasion of her privacy. If you don't publicize it, nobody will care and everything will die down."

"Well, what if we don't want it to die down? You could scrap the pirate book and go back to Nikki..."

Nikki was, in fact, lying on the kitchen counter, sucking on a wedge of lime, then licking the back of her hand. This was the most he'd seen of Nikki since early June, and she was looking mighty fine. Not as fine as Beckett, of course, but... limes.

Rick averted his mind's eye to Paula, who had a truly spectacular body and knew how to do a really amazing trick with a ping pong ball. "Look, I start touring on Tuesday morning on the West Coast. I'll be working from that hub for about six weeks" (she knew his itinerary: five days in major California cities, a tour of China, Japan, Hong Kong, Thailand, Australia, and New Zealand then Buenos Aires and Sao Paolo, Mexico City and then L.A, San Francisco, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver, Edmonton, Colorado Springs... - it was gonna be a monster of a trip with a few days hanging out. He was also to take two discreet days in Thailand on "an offgrid elephant-riding adventure" meeting with an unnamed operative about an undisclosed operation, which of course he could say nothing about to Paula). "When Tuesday morning rolls around, I'm your little bookselling slave-puppet. So can we just... can I have a couple of days to … just lay low?"

Paula relented. "Yeah, okay. If anybody asks, it wasn't you."

"It wasn't me. Thank you. You're a goddess." He wasn't specific which one. Probably Hera: jealous, demanding, fickle, vain, and appreciative of human sacrifice.

His next call was to Montgomery, and of course Montgomery's first words were, "Hey, Castle. Long time no hear."

"Sorry about that. Weird summer," he sighed. They made small talk for a while, catching up. Alexis' summer studies and travels. Montgomery's girls in middle school. Evelyn's promotion at work. Montgomery's plans to upgrade the plumbing at his fishing cabin in anticipation of an early retirement. Alexis' thoughts about applying to Stanford. Rick's possible relocation to the West Coast.

Montgomery's voice was cautious. "So, uh, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I ran into Beckett this morning. At a farmer's market."

"Oh," said Montgomery.

"You might see some footage on the internet. We helped make... okay, we made an arrest. Nothing big. Just a purse snatcher."

"Wasn't it her day off?"

"Well, yeah. So she called it in, and some uniforms from the Fourteenth – well, let's just say my camera wasn't the only one that caught some unprofessional behavior on their part."

"Unprofessional."

"Internal Affairs might be interested. I thought you might want to have a first look, in case they have questions, or the captain at the Fourteenth has questions."

Montgomery sighed. "All right, send it my way."

"Sorry," Castle said. "I just wanted to give you a heads up. I uploaded my file to YouBoob and I'll message you the private link after we talk. But you have my permission to show it to Beckett, to IA, whatever's necessary so she doesn't catch any further crap from those... fine officers."

"Thanks," Montgomery said. "Now you're back in the City, I don't suppose you'll need to do more research at the Twelfth?" His voice was carefully neutral. He played poker very well. Rick suspected that there were layers to Montgomery that nobody was ever gonna get through.

Rick's fingers scraped through hair that suddenly felt too long and sloppy. "You know, Roy, I hope so. But it depends on Beckett. And maybe you."

"You're not gonna bring Weldon into it?"

"Not this time," he said quietly. "Either you guys want me there, or you don't."

Montgomery said, "You know our solve rate went up when you worked on Beckett's team."

Rick couldn't hide the grin in his voice. "So she admitted today."

"I'm never gonna get in the way of something that gets the job done," Montgomery chuckled. "So you two work it out if you can. My guess is you'll have more trouble with Ryan and Esposito."

"Oh?" Rick squeaked. He hadn't really thought of that.

"Hell hath no fury. You didn't call, you didn't write..."

Rick laughed, disbelieving. "Did they ever even _like_ me?" He'd come to seriously doubt it.

"Maybe they did, but not right now. So tread with care. They'll come around if you grovel a little. Or maybe bribe them. Or help them with paperwork."

Rick nodded to the phone. "Thanks for the inside tip. I gotta go. Authory things."

"Okay. I'll have a look at the video and figure out if I need to take any action." Montgomery was pretty sure he would. So much for a peaceful Saturday.

•••

* * *

 **SOHO**  
Rick spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom, first with the clipper, then the shaver. He trimmed his bangs and sideburns, and sprayed his hair into submission, knowing from bitter experience not to try trimming his own hair in the back. He briefly contemplated a ponytail, but he'd seen too many action movies. "The guy on the roof with the ponytail is always a goner." Then, with a sigh, he shucked off the shorts and the watermelon T-shirt, and changed into what he sometimes described to Gina as "Published Author Friday Casual" - a pair of khaki linen slacks, some Merrills, and a button-down plaid shirt. He put in his contact lenses and swiped some bronzer over his face in the hope of evening out the beard-shaded skin, which was one tone lighter on his chin and upper lip. Loins now girded to deal with his friends, rivals, frenemies, and close acquaintances, he picked up his laptop. He stopped in the kitchen to grab the bag of raw oysters out of the fridge, and headed up to the party. One sweeping gaze at the crowd told him that everyone he'd expected was already there, and that his mother - whom he'd thought was at the Ashland Shakespeare Festival finishing up a summer stock season - was hitting on a man with a Pulitzer and three ex-wives.

•••

* * *

 **TRIBECA**

Kate visited the building supervisor, Mr. Miro, and he opened her apartment door to let her in.

"You got a spare key in your apartment, Kate?" He never called her Detective, or Ms. Beckett, probably because he had a daughter about the same age as Kate, and he was an informal guy. This didn't bother her. He was a genius when it came to projects like extricating dead mice from the radiator pipes.

"Yes, I do, thanks, Mr. Miro."

"Do you need to change your lock?"

"Oh, no, I'm pretty sure I know where I left the key," she smiled. "They wouldn't take advantage." Would Castle ever... whoa, it was a little early on to be thinking such a thing. "Thanks anyway!"

"You bet."

She hurried in, pulled out the bag of pastries with the now-grease-spotted note, and got smashed banana all over her hand. She realized that was another casualty of the arrest that neither she nor Castle had had the time or energy to deal with. She turned the bag inside out, scraped the banana pulp off the bag (Richard Castle's voice inside her head said, _"I wonder if I like banana bread? You could bake some. Ohh, could I watch you stir the batter?"_ )

Kate smirked to herself as she rinsed the blackening banana goo off the nylon fabric, scrubbed it clean, wrung it out, and hung it to dry on the fire escape outside her more westerly living room window (the one without her mother's murder board.) She removed further banana pulp from the plastic bags wrapping her torpedo-shaped collection of vegetables, and popped them into her crisper drawer.

Then she swore, remembering she'd told Cuthbert and Hodgkins that she'd email them a report of the incident up to the time they arrived. She hurried to her laptop and logged in to her police account, pulled up a form to complete online, and spent forty minutes documenting an incident that took five minutes to transpire. This was partially because she heard Castle's voice in her head narrating the whole thing ( _"Beckett, did I mention you looked totally hot with those zip-ties?"_ ) and partially because she was trying to think of a way to leave her partner out of it. She referred to him as a "Concerned Citizen" and left it at that. After all, it wasn't a lie. She didn't want to complicate his life any more than she had to. And despite their utterly blissful noontime liaison, she didn't want to assume anything about Castle's intentions, either public or private.

 **•••**

* * *

 **SOHO**

When the elevator door opened, Martha glanced up, excusing herself from Mr. I-Have-A-Pulitzer-And-You-Don't. She descended on Rick, arms flapping like a large bird-of-paradise stooping to greet a chick in her nest. "Oh, Richard, finally, there you are, what a lovely party!" she exclaimed. She planted a hug and kiss on him, which he returned with reasonable enthusiasm, surprising himself at how glad he was to see her.

"Hello, Mother."

"We were all wondering whether you'd even show up." She winked.

"I'm here now," he grimaced, then gave her a smile. "Welcome back. But I thought you were out of town until later this week?"

"Oh, I missed New York, and I wanted to be here for Alexis, since you're going off on tour. Give my understudy a chance to shine for the last weekend of the run." Martha jingled her bracelets and took an agua fresca vodka slushie from a passing caterer's tray. "Mm! Refreshing!" she chirped.

"Excuse me a moment." Rick stepped past her, went over to the outdoor kitchen area the caterers had set up, and handed off the oysters to the catering manager, Lance.

"I was thinking angels on horseback," he said. "But maybe just raw. They're fresh. But we're barely into a month with an R in it. So you decide."

"We can do Florentine. Stretches them a little. Less greasy than angels."

Rick nodded. "Your call." He took his apartment and building key off his main ring, and handed them to Lance. "There's a bunch more stuff in the crisper drawer including spinach – also there's a little pot of chives on the counter. Oh, and a pan of sauteed mushrooms on the stovetop."

Lance nodded. "I should have hired you instead of the other way round."

"You'll be the first person I crawl to if my next book bombs."

Martha looked around happily at the party-goers. There was a hot jazz combo playing, people were mingling – (very few authors like to dance, and none of them were anywhere near their required stage of intoxication). Several sat on lounge chairs in the sun or under shade umbrellas, writing on notepads or tapping away on laptops. Mr. Pulitzer was gazing up at the sky, sipping on a draft stout, smoking a pipe, looking as Irish as possible. A good many of the male writers were well into or past middle age, and spectacularly divorced, and Martha was quietly sussing out her most likely candidate before going in for the kill. She nudged her nose in an attractive, silver-haired man's direction.

Rick shook his head. "Nope. He tends to write about things with tentacles."

Martha frowned dubiously. "Not in a Jacques Cousteau way?"

"No, in a Lovecraftian way. I doubt you'd have much in common."

"You're probably right." She leaned against the roof parapet and gazed out over the city. "It's a shame you have to leave town again so soon, considering you're dating someone new."

"N... uh, where did you hear that?"

"Oh, one of your guests might have mentioned a suspicion that you had a girl at the loft this morning."

"Oh. Yeah, well, discretion's a lost art form, isn't it?" he sighed through gritted teeth. "Weather report said eighty percent chance of T-storms this evening. We'll probably have to move downstairs if the wind picks up."

"Don't try to distract me with your weather-talk, young man," Martha said. "Last week, you sent me a self-taken photo looking like an abandoned Shih Tzu at the pound... I barely recognized you, and you've lost so much weight... It is not reassuring. I'm concerned."

"You mean that selfie? I'd been out fishing all day, of course I was bedraggled, but I was fine then. I'm fine now."

"...you had a new girl in a watermelon-print shirt at the loft this morning..."

"That sounds like more than just a suspicion, Mother."

"...you were late to your own party, you're obviously freshly shaven after weeks without it, and you've cut your own bangs. The last time you did this, it was because you caught Meredith sleeping with Tony."

"It's not like that."

"How is it not like that? Are you really ready to move on? Take this jump out to California? Start seeing new women only to drop them? It hardly seems fair."

"To whom?" he snapped. "I thought I'd made it clear you'll always have a roof over your head, but I really don't need your constant supervision. Or Alexis', for that matter."

She looked a little stung, and his posture sagged with shame and exasperation. He put his arm across Martha's shoulder, kissed her temple, and said very quietly, "Look, Mother. I'm truly sorry. I'm not... I have a lot going on right now, stuff I didn't expect, and I don't really know how to handle it. Can you just help me get through this one day without my alienating everyone I know, including you?"

Martha gave her son a long, loving look, and reached up to pat his hand where it rested on her slim shoulder. "Of course, Kiddo."

He made a subtle gesture, indicating his guests. "And I have this show to put on. You understand that. _Show_. Right?"

"Show?"

"As in _'Must-Go-On.'_

"I suppose it must!" she said brightly. Then she looked around eagerly, as if expecting the Three Witches from MacBeth to rise up out of the barbecue.

Rick said, "There's a reason you're never invited to these things, Mother. It looks like a party, but it's 99 percent work for me. Writing exercises, networking..."

"And?"

"Well, if you'd like to assist in keeping the guests entertained, I'd appreciate it."

"I charge a fee for that, Kiddo," she smirked.

He smirked. "We have oysters."

"And I'm your girl!"

Rick's phone buzzed in his pocket. He turned to block his mother's prying eyes, but she saw the excitement in his expression, which fell when he saw the "Unidentified Caller" ID. He was about to pick it up anyway, just to escape his mother's scrutiny, when a passing slightly tipsy science fiction author made a wild gesture when trying to describe a space battle, and her hand crashed into Castle's elbow. His phone went hurtling over the side of the building and down to the sidewalk below, taking Beckett's voice mail message with it.

The authoress peered at him through her horn-rimmed glasses and groaned, then looked over the parapet, and her glasses nearly fell off to join the phone. She barely caught them in time. "Oh, Jeez, Rick, I'm so sorry!" she said.

"No worries, Jane, I have a backup." He'd gone through an awful lot of phones, and before that, several pagers. He didn't absent-mindedly lose them, not ever. But he was a little bit of a klutz, and things just tended to happen.

•••

* * *

 **TRIBECA**  
In her apartment, finished with her onerous paperwork task, Kate used her land-line, since it was right there in the kitchen. She let the phone ring until it went to Castle's voice mail. He'd changed his message over the summer. It sounded just... fine. Businesslike, professional, a little clipped, a little distracted... Castle-yet-not-the-Rick-she-knew.

 _"Richard Castle here: writer, dilettante, man-about-town. You know what to do."_ Click. Beeeep.

"Hey, Castle, this is... yeah, this is Kate. I, um, seem to have lost my key. My super let me in but I wonder if it might have, if I might have dropped it somewhere. Maybe in your kitchen? Or your upstairs bathroom? I never put it in the jeans pocket. Uh, I know you're busy. I could swing by and get it, or, I don't know, you probably won't have time to drop it by. I'll be up fairly late. Feel free to call back or message anytime." She hesitated, grinning. "And I had a … I had the best day... in a long time. Maybe the best day ever, Rick." She paused. "Okay, I really don't care that much about the key, I trust you with it, I just... I'd love to see you again before you take off for points west, even if it's just..." Beeeeeep.

 _"Press one to listen to your message. Press two to erase and re-record your message. Press 3 to accept your message."_

She went for something more grown up, but she was still grinning from ear to ear and pressed 2. "Hey, Castle, it's Beckett. I think I may have left my key at your loft. Can you give me a call or text me? Thanks."

There. Much more adult. She pressed 3 and hung up, satisfied.

* * *

 **SOHO**

Watching his phone explode into smithereens sixty feet below, Rick sighed. "Why do I have a feeling this day can only go south from here?"

Martha said, "Well, it wouldn't be the first phone that's taken a fall for you."

He started to feel something nagging at the back of his mind. Not the phone, nor the feeling one has when one's phone is turned off but still seems to have a phantom ring anyway. He was beginning to get an idea of the many ways in which things could go wrong. He pushed it down. Kate had only been gone for an hour at most. She had his home phone number. He had a backup cell phone in his desk because he'd learned from hard experience that his profession and travel required it (at that time there wasn't a 'cloud', remember. There was barely even a horizon for it to approach from). It could wait. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. He was just being paranoid. Okay, paranoid would be if he thought she'd be kidnapped by the CIA. Anxious, then. Obsessive. Compulsive. Stupid. He thought of the way her face had looked when he kissed her, when she kissed him back. He thought of her hands on his body, and his on hers. And of their mutual tears when they had to say goodbye. It was real. It was good.

Everything was _fine_.

And if it wasn't now, it was going to be. He had made Things Turning Out For The Best his life's goal, and he was damn good at it.

Castle stared down at the sidewalk and said evenly, "Mother, I have a spare cell phone in my lower right desk drawer. Can you please place it on the charger cable for me?"

"Of course, Darling," Martha said. "I'll also call maintenance and ask them to sweep up the mess down there."

"Now would be really good." His smile looked like a slice of American cheese: smooth, plastic, completely false yet still moderately attractive. "Thank you so very much."

Martha nodded, found her purse, and took the elevator down to the loft.

Richard Edgar Castle took a deep breath and clapped his hands once to reset his mood, and, like turning on a switch, he closed the shutters on his personal life and became the Master of Ceremonies – (and, incidentally, the Macabre).

"All right, everyone, now that we've had time to mingle and accrue the snacks of our choice, let's start on the first round. Grab a seat, whip out your writing implements, and let's do this thing."

* * *

 **TRIBECA**  
Kate stood there for a moment with the phone pressed to her chest like a love-struck teenager, then remembered to click 3. She put some coffee on and opened up the packet of pastries. She set them on a plate. The one with raspberry chocolate ganache in the middle had gone a bit sweaty, and the slightly-buttery sugar glaze had leaked onto and smeared his note to her.

If he'd had a brain cell left in his skull he would have wrapped it separately. But the brain doesn't always work well in a pre-party, post-orgasmic haze. When he originally wrote the note in a gel pen he'd hastily grabbed from the kitchen junk drawer, it had been quite sweet:

 _"Hope this tides you over until the next time we kiss.  
I can't wait to hold you.  
We'll be lovers again before you know it."  
_

...with a little heart drawn below it. _  
_

The pastry had other plans. What Kate read was:

"***** **is **** *** over un** *** *ex* **me ** *is**  
I can't ** it **** old ***.  
We***** over *** **in ***or *** *no ****."

and the little heart he'd drawn looked rather like a frownie face with little horns.

It looked really bad. It looked... well, _over_.

At least the raspberry ganache donut didn't call her a "Ho".

She threw the note, and the plate of uneaten pastries, into the trash, sat down at the counter, put her face in her hands, and wept.  
•••

* * *

 **SOHO  
** Martha let herself in to the loft, where Lance was rummaging through the fridge, looking for the spinach. She caught her foot and nearly went sprawling on the bundle of blue gloves by the door. She bent and picked them up gingerly, then deposited them in the trash. God only knew what was on those gloves, but she could smell hot peppers, which she found very peculiar indeed, but might explain why Richard's eyes looked a bit red-rimmed. She went to her bedroom upstairs to deposit her purse. Then she went to the bathroom (which she and Alexis sometimes shared with guests) to wash her hands. Draped on the back of the toilet, she found a pair of ancient black booty shorts that she thought she recognized from Richard's Rocky Horror days (Normally 6'2", he'd stood 6'8" in the platform heels, somewhere between gawky and magnificent. She wondered what had happened to all the photos she took of him and his friends) (He knew exactly what had happened to the photos because he'd burned them himself). The lycra had given up its mojo, so she tossed them into the trash, resolving to buy him a new (larger) pair for Christmas, just to embarrass him. Then, standing on the bath mat, Martha's shoe clinked softly against something metallic. She bent and picked up a bronze deadbolt key.

"Hm. Wonder who dropped this?" she smiled to herself, then thought of a woman's long, elegant foot sticking out from behind the couch, and her son's right hand grasping that woman's slim right ankle to shift it further out. "Somebody tall, I imagine."

Then she heard Lance's voice calling up from downstairs. "Ms. Rodgers, do you folks have a nutmeg grater?"

She tucked Kate's lost key into her pocket, along with her own set, and called out, "Coming, Lancelot!"

* * *

 **TRIBECA**

Kate's phone rang, and she answered it with a breathless "Hello?" instead of her usual clipped _'Beckett.'_ It was Montgomery. She couldn't hide the disappointment in her voice.

"Sir, isn't it your day off?"

"It was. It was your day off, too. But I see you were busy."

"I... yes, sir. I made an arrest this morning."

"Thanks for ccing me on the report. Did you happen to see any of the footage online?"

"Onli-? Oh. N-no, Sir." She'd vaguely noticed people with their cell phones. It somehow hadn't occurred to her that anyone would bother to post something so... stupid. "How bad is it?"

"It's interesting. I hadn't considered oil wrestling a normal course of action for New York's Finest." She could hear the amusement in his voice now.

"I, uh, it won't happen again."

"What, you'll never foil a purse snatcher?"

"I guess I can't guarantee that," she sighed.

"I'm looking at YouBoob. There was quite a crowd watching. They just can't wait for the nightsticks to come out. At least nobody took it in the crotch."

"Well, sir, all I had was a bag of..."

"Carrots?"

"Yes. And, uh, zucchini. And a banana." Montgomery was silent for over thirty seconds. Eventually Kate heard a soft snort. This was because he had his hand over his mouth and was trying not to let her hear him laughing. "Uh, sir?"

Montgomery coughed. "Sorry, I had something in my throat. Needed some water. So who's the scruffy guy there?"

"The suspect? Donald Dumpher."

"No. The one who brought him down. With the shopping cart."

"Innocent bystander."

"Beckett, I've emailed you a few links. They'll take you to the videos on YouBoob."

Kate logged into her account and went to the first URL in his email (Imaginary Richard Castle peered over her shoulder and crowed, _"Will you look at that, Beckett? You're famous!"_ ). At the top of its feed was an entry, "NYPD PIGS Officer Misconduct Soho Farmer's Market." Kate's intestines lodged themselves into _(shut up, Castle!) ..."an arcane knot of viscera, used to foretell doom by the druids somewhere back in the mists of time." "Shut up, Castle. Just shut up."_

The video's representative icon was a screen capture of Beckett from the backside, with oily handprints on her ass, and Dumpher on the ground. "Shit," she murmured. Heart hammering, she clicked "Play". There she was, falling down, oil all over her, getting up, Dumpher tripping on Castle's shopping cart and falling, Castle with the sunflower stem jabbing into Dumpher's back (she couldn't help smiling then wanting to die because he was a... a using... _user!_ ). She saw herself cable-tying Dumpher, then reinforcing with the tape, getting him on his feet, the olive guy handing the tongs to Castle as her writer picked up some really disturbing items. Kate watched the approach of Ms. Sterling, and then the advent of Hodgkins and Cuthbert. And that was where it got really interesting, because the two fridge-sized officers were talking quietly to Beckett, and her face was white and cold and composed as she spoke quietly back. Watching the video, from what Kate observed, she had not broken protocol or done anything wrong. Castle, the scruffy surfer dude with the shopping cart, was standing a little off to the side, looking, not at her ass, but at her face and the two uniforms, his expression a white mask of rage, and in the video, Detective Beckett shot him a tiny, forbidding glare that anyone who knew her would obey. Watching herself, Kate found herself smiling a little: she'd never really seen much of herself in action before, and aside from stumbling around squashing olives, she looked sort of badass. Castle stood down, stepped out of the uniforms' range of vision, pulled his phone out, glanced down at the screen, and was clearly recording every word Hodgkins and Cuthbert had exchanged with Beckett.

And then there was all the stuff about the walnut. But Montgomery didn't care about that, and the way Hodgkins and Cuthbert eventually roughed up both Sterling and Dumpher was not his current concern. He said, "So, I'm wondering what that hipster with the shopping cart recorded."

Beckett lied, "I wouldn't know. I didn't catch his na..."

"No, just watch. I love this part!" Montgomery said. "With the sneezing? The man's gotta be coked out of his mind. And there you are, walking off with him, arm in arm. He must have been having a wonderful day. Was he undercover narcotics? He's been dippin' a little too deep."

"Coked?" Beckett spluttered. "Castle would _never_..."

"Gotcha."

"Oh, you son o..." Kate stopped, clearing her throat. "Forgive me, sir. I've had..." suddenly her throat went hot with tears and she could barely speak. She sniffled. "Excuse me." She snatched a paper towel off the roll in her kitchen and blew her nose. It felt hard and scratchy. Well, good. Suffering clears the mind.

"Beckett," Montgomery said gently. "These guys are way outta line. I know they were passed over when you were promoted at the Fourteenth. I don't blame you for being upset."

Kate said, "Yeah, I don't give a damn about that. It's water under the bridge."

"No, it's not," he said. "You're not the only woman they've hassled. You think they should keep getting away with it? Or should Internal Affairs just let the accusations keep pilin' up?"

"I don't want to make trouble."

" _They_ are the ones making trouble. I'm surprised at you, backin' down from a fight. Given this kind of rope, Iron Gates would make a macramé hammock out of these bastards."

Kate sniffled. "Look, sir, I really just don't care right now, okay?" She sounded way too close to crying. "Can we discuss this on Tuesday?"

He took the fine line between fatherly/gentle and Captain. "Beckett. What happened with Castle?"

"What do you mean, 'What happened with Castle'?"

"He called me a little while ago. Sent me the file he'd recorded. Told me he was leaving it up to you but wanted me to make sure NYPD kept his involvement under wraps. In respect for your privacy. His words."

"Involvement," she snorted.

"Perhaps not his exact words. I take it there's no substantial change in your situation from last spring."

Beckett found herself searching for words, unable to control the tremble in her voice. "Sir..."

"Kate. Look at that video. Look at his face, 3 minutes and 47 seconds in. That is not a man who'd play you. He may look like a roadie for a grunge band, but that's the face of a partner who has your back, hell or high water. As your superior officer, I strongly recommend that you cultivate that partnership with all the resources you have, because it's a rare thing."

"But he..."

"Look at the evidence, Beckett. Look carefully. In the long run, just like with any other search for the truth, it all adds up. Now I'd like to go back to my wife and children and get my grill fired up. I caught a few nice trout this morning."

"Yes sir. Thank you."

"I'm gonna file the report before the shit hits the fan. IA will find it on their desktops Tuesday morning, and you'll come out smelling like a rose. So just relax for now and … work this thing out with your writer."

"Yes, Captain."

"And thanks for volunteering to work Memorial Day. We'll miss you at the picnic."

"You're welcome, sir."

She hung up, and pressed her fingers into her sore, bloodshot eyes. Then she looked at the video again: at 3 minutes and 43 seconds, there was Castle, practically swooning in admiration for her, and at 3 minutes and 47 seconds, he was ready to fight or die – on her behalf. She stared at the screen. "So what the hell happened, _Rick_? Do I still taste like onions?" (He had. She hadn't minded). "Are you that much of a superficial user? We have one hot makeout session and you drop me like a hot... brioche?"

Montgomery's voice in her head nagged, _"Look at the evidence, Beckett."_

There had to be something she wasn't seeing. She fished the sad little note out of the trash and looked at it again, held it up to the light. Still nothing was discernible. She took it to the window and held it up to the glass next to her mother's murder board, but even the direct sunlight through the smeary paper rendered no more detail. She looked at the photo of her mom: the nice headshot from the legal firm, taken when Johanna was still alive and kicking ass. Sometimes Kate's ass, figuratively speaking. "Mom," she said. "You... God, I wish you were here."

She flopped down on her couch with her forearm over her eyes. Richard Castle was not the only person who lived in Kate's head. She could hear her mother's voice. _"You know, Katie, the most important rule of justice is that people are innocent until proven guilty. It's so easy to judge. But circumstantial evidence and hearsay are not the same as hard, corroborated evidence."_

" _But he has a history of being a total womanizer and..."_

" _Who told you that? A gossip rag?"_

" _Page Six is hardly a gossip rag."_

" _Page Six is manipulated by a soulless propaganda machine whose entire goal is to make money for its publishers. They'd tell you he was dating a box turtle if they thought it would bring in extra cash. Or clicks. Whatever they call it now."_

Kate sighed. _"I wish you could have met him. You'd understand how confusing this is."_

" _I_ did _meet him!" Johanna-in-her-head laughed. "I did! I thought he was adorable. I told you that! Remember how I was falling all over myself, and your father just rolled his eyes and called me a marshmallow? I dragged you to a book signing the next time, and we met Mr. Castle together. Twice! Remember that time you dropped the book and everyone stared at you? He was nothing but kind to you. And now you know him, better than you want to admit. He's friends with his ex-wives, Kate. He's good to his mom and his daughter. He busts his ass to help you solve cases. You've grown into a lovely, mature woman. You know he likes you. You know he wants you."_

The thought of her mom saying such a thing was a bit weird. _"Wanted me."_

" _You know_ _ **he loves you**_ _," said Imaginary Mom Who Really Never Did Back Down From An Argument And Got Killed For It._

For a moment Kate's mind's eye saw her mother slumped on the floor beside her couch, dead, with blood streaming out onto the carpet, sticking her fingers together from where she'd tried to stanch her own wounds. Kate felt the fierce pain of loss again, and as always, her mind did an inventory of all the stab wounds, their angle, the organs and muscles hit, the place where the blade nicked a bone... growing colder, the January ground icy beneath, the trash can holding her up, the smell of garbage...  
 _  
"Katie," her mother's voice was soft in her head now, soft, the life ebbing out. "Help me."_

" _I can't help you, Mom, I've looked, I've looked, I just can't see it. I feel your pain in my bones, every goddamn day, and I can't see what I'm missing, except that I miss you. Even if you won't shut up. It hurts so much."_

Johanna's voice was growing stronger again. It was the voice she used when they were driving down the West Coast in a rental car, with Katie trying to decide between Reed, UC Berkeley, Stanford, and UCLA. They'd spent a lot of time talking, and a lot of time not talking, mad as hell at one another, each too stubborn to concede. Oddly, Kate could remember her mother's angry voice, but not the trivialities about which they'd argued. _"Castle wanted to help you, and you pushed him away. You're still looking for an excuse, Katie. I've seen you do it before with other boyfriends. You went for bad boys like a magnet to steel, but everything always had to be perfect and dramatic and exciting and romantic, and then when they disappointed you in any way, you just couldn't accept it, and you dumped them. And if they were kind to you, you couldn't accept that either, and you got bored, and you dumped the nice ones, too. This man's made you work. He's earned a chance."_

It was as fine a harangue as Johanna ever shot out in her pre-death life. Kate breathed it in, trying to fit all the pieces together. _"If he loves me, why didn't he call me for over three months? Was it really just Demming? Why didn't he pick up the phone when I called this afternoon?"_

" _He has a life, Katie. Maybe he was busy."_

An unexpected voice in her head butted in. _"Why didn't you use your cell phone?"_ said Imaginary Castle. _"You have caller ID blocked on your land line."_

Kate sat bolt upright out of a nap she hadn't intended to take. "Shit!"

 **END CHAPTER 12**


	13. HBSB ch 13: Corralling the Plot Bunnies

**CHAPTER 13  
Corralling the Bunnies  
**

•••  
 **SOHO**  
The Dread Authors Society Semi-Annual Literary Salon was going along rather well. They drew write prompts out of boxes and wrote for five minutes. They drew challenges that made them write outside of their accustomed genres. They gave two-minute, one-minute, and thirty-second pitches for books they had not yet written. They swapped intriguing orphaned ideas they had abandoned for lack of time or momentum.. They talked about writer's block, and obsessive fans, and insomnia. They talked about Oxford commas and argued about semicolons and laughed at homonyms and chose single words out of the dictionary around which to write an entire scene. They discussed the fine line between buzzed writing and a drunken, useless mess. They discussed writing while high or dictating while on peyote (neither of these things are recommended!) or typing with eyes closed while trying to capture a dream. They discussed books without titles and titles without books. They split into teams to play charades and then Pictionary. One writer had brought a tarot deck; each guest picked up a single card and wrote about it for ten minutes. Some got tipsy. Some got drunk. There may have been some cannabis wafting about on the windward side of the roof.

Castle was stone cold sober if you don't count love-drunk, and he was still wrestling with that niggling sense of unease.

Around 6:30 they had dinner: steak, oysters Florentine, garlic mashed potatoes, salad, hot-and-sour green beans, garlic bread, and way too much cheese. After dinner they split into three groups of eight. When it was his turn to dish out his authorial woes, Castle spoke to the round table. "So I've got a story, and I'm having trouble figuring out the genre," he began.

"Comic or tragic?" asked James.

"Oh, comic, I hope, if we're talking in classical terms. No Greek chorus, not everyone-dies-at- the-end."

The woman with the Chihuaha said, "Is it steamy?"

Castle shrugged and blushed. "It's beginning to look that way."

"Good," she said, and took a sip of her Cosmopolitan. "I like steam."

"On the other hand, there's a lot of unrequited love going around. The main protagonist has secrets, the object of affection has secrets, sometimes they communicate well, sometimes they completely misunderstand one another.

Ursula said, "Are there larger cosmological implications? Or is it run-of-the-mill?"

"I think that an element of fate may be involved."

"Magic?" said Jo, who'd arrived rather late in the afternoon. "Any fantasy?"

"Maybe a touch. But it might be just whimsy. Nothing too wizardy."

Jo and Ursula exchanged an eyeroll. "There never is with you."

Dorothy said, "Where does free will fall into it? Are these characters self-directed or at the mercy of the fates?"

He said wryly, "One of them may be at the mercy of a muse."

Off to the side, one writer belched out his fourth beer. "Fuckin' muse," he blathered. "Bitch won't talk to me anymore. Bitchy musey bitch." His head banged down on his laptop keyboard, and he went quiet. Rick found himself staring off at the heartbroken, museless wreck. Rick could see Nikki Heat, just faintly, sitting invisibly on the table next to the hapless author, poking him in the shoulder. _"Maybe it's time for you to go throw up in a planter, buddy. Maybe you need to sit up, shut up and listen. Then start typing whatever it is you hear."_

Rick signaled one of the caterers. "Can you bring that gentleman some water, please?"

Joshua said, "Science fiction? Possibly a Western setting?"

"No rocket ships. No ponies."

"Damn. Atheist universe? Merciful gods? Angry? Passive?

"Wish I knew," said Rick.

Dan said, "Any demons? Evil forces at play?"

Rick nodded slowly. "Not literally. But in a manner of speaking, yes. Larger forces, unknown, possibly malevolent. And the demons we all have inside."

"Ha!" said Dave. "Speak for yourself."

"I always do," said Rick. He said it automatically then realized, suddenly, that it was a bald-face lie. He pursed his lips into what Beckett privately thought of as _"the pissy face."_ He spoke for his characters, all the time, making them into convincing and lovable and frightening lies. But in real life, very often, he stayed silent. He did not speak for himself. He shut up, he watched, he listened, he went for the joke or the charm to keep others at ease, he concealed his skills like the Scarlet Pimpernel, only revealing them when necessary. He tried to figure out what was going on with everyone else so he wouldn't drive anyone away... or let them get too close. When he paid attention and kept the filters on, he could command a room. And when he acted on his heart and let those filters down, that heart frequently got cracked or even broken. That all flew through his head more quickly than I could write it down or you could read it, because Richard Alexander Edgar Rodgers Castle is smarter than you and me put together, and it was all stuff he already knew about himself. But this time, it was different. He was under the scrutiny of people who might very easily suss it out. There was something massive at stake, and he wasn't sure what it was, but he had to put it out there: he didn't know exactly how to handle this story, and he wanted it to have a happy ending.

He sat back in his chair with a puzzled frown. "Okay. So it's two people, they meet cute, they know one another reasonably well, they work together. They fight like cats and dogs from day one."

"Classic rom com," said Ursula, shaking her head sadly. "Rick, I'd expect better from you."

"Well, no, here's the thing. There are a series of smaller challenges, they're in law enforcement, and they solve crimes. Mostly they're successful, but they have a few larger crimes that go unsolved longterm. And a hidden nemesis. In order for their challenges to escalate and create a larger character arc, that's essential."

"Well, then, that's a thriller," mumble Robert, who was typing fast with just his index fingers. "The Muse Conspiracy. I like it."

Dan rolled his eyes. "You and your stupid three-word titles."

"Have you counted yours lately, Dan?"

"Do mine always start with _'The'_?"

Rick continued, ignoring the bickering. "In any story, there has to be a conflict, whether it's a legitimate conflict of interest, or a comedy of errors. So if this is a comedy, they have a misunderstanding but they patch it up quickly. If it's a dramatic romance, they have a misunderstanding. They probably fall into bed, then separate, then get back together at the end when they realize they can't live without each other."

"Breathe, Ricky," smirked James. He knew what was going on. It had been obvious since that poker game. "And if it's a thriller?"

"If it's a thriller," said Stephen, "Then she gets killed in the first quarter, and he spends the rest of the book bringing her killer to justice. Either that or she dies on the very last page, and there's a sequel. Those sell well. But you just did that to Derrick. Seems like a bad idea to repeat yourself so soon."

"And if it's horror?" said Dean. He smirked.

Rick shuddered. "If it's horror, demons from their past come forth and destroy them, and everyone they know."

A cold breeze came up, and Rick glanced up at the skyline.

In passing, Lance said, "Yeah, I've been watching that thunderhead, I think the weather report's right."

It was just the tail-end of the spiraling outer arm of a hurricane that had grazed the East Coast and made Castle's last few days at the Hamptons house both slightly unnerving and dull as a rainy day alone. "Might as well clear everything and take it downstairs, then." Rick said. "Ooh, if the power goes out, we can write by candlelight."

Andy added, "Ooh, and if it goes out now, we can get stuck in the elevator! Whoop-de-doo!"

Terri giggled. "You are so romantic."

Castle brightened. "We can always rappel down through the skylight, worst comes to worst."

"Have you ever done that?"

"Of course I've done that, what's the point of having a penthouse if you never, you know, pent?"

Most of the guests went down in shifts in the elevator, some of them carrying the rented folding chairs they'd occupied on the roof. Rick and Stephen went to the stairs. "Speaking of _pent_ ", said Stephen. "What's all pent up in you?"

"Beckett."

"Suspected as much."

Rick was torn between smiling and scowling. "We ran into each other this morning. Had a really, I mean a _really_ good day. Maybe a breakthrough. I think. I hope."

"Well did you, or didn't you?"

He thought slightly longer and harder than he would have expected in such a situation. "Yes."

Stephen said, "Do you even do outlines anymore, Ricky, or do you just sort of write at random and see how it turns out?"

Castle scoffed. "What do you take me for?"

"Last time we played poker, two hundred bucks."

"And that makes up for the three I won from you in March?"

"Almost."

"Mostly I outline. But a lot of times, the little things just fill in..."

"You've got plot bunnies." They were at the bottom of the stairs now, in the hallway.

Invisible Beckett was in the hallway, too, wearing the shredded remains of a nylon shopping bag and a pair of rabbit ears. _"Is he saying I'm a plot bunny?"_ She was not amused.

Castle spoke for Anyone But Himself. "Are you saying Beckett's a plot bunny?"

"No. I'm saying all the _possibilities_ are." Stephen's long fingers mimed a couple of bouncing rabbits, their ears twitching. "You could get together today. You could get together tomorrow. You could have her come meet up with you somewhere on your trip and hope the novelty and romance of being alone without interruption will get you laid."

" _Laid?_ I..."

Stephen laughed at Rick's indignation. "Last thing on your mind, right? You could go off to bumfuck nowhere, send her a bunch of texts, and hope she's still available when you get back … next time. Then your phone gets eaten by a Cambodian oarfish, and your future becomes historical fiction."

Castle's mouth flapped open then closed again. These were all scenarios any writer would consider while trying to drag their characters from point A to Z in varying degrees of angst and terror.

"You could get kidnapped and have her search the world for you. You could have her almost killed and become a bitter recluse while she goes off to lick her wounds. You could run away like a scared little rabbit, afraid to be hurt, and throw the story into the widows and orphans pile in your bottom right file drawer, then get drunk and cry over it on your fifty-first, lonely birthday, while you read about her wedding to a handsome but slimy senator twice her age."

Invisible Nikki said, _"You wouldn't dare."_

Invisible Kate said, _"Don't even think about it. I'm an adult. I'm the most adult... adult you've ever had the privilege to know."_ The bunny slippers and fluffy tail weren't helping her case. Neither were the whiskers.

Rick found himself faintly nauseous. "I have no control over what Beckett does."

They stopped at the door to his loft, which was unlocked, and the two men carried their chairs through, still talking quietly. "Of course you don't. All you have control of is what you write of the story. So what the fuck are you doing here?"

Stephen gestured around the living room and kitchen, which were packed with authors in varying stages of inebriation and creative furor. He said, "I'll herd the cats. You corral the bunnies. You have some serious outlining to do."

Everything suddenly became clear to Rick: he really did need to get the hell out of there, party or no party. He hurried into his room, yanked out a suitcase, and grabbed the Queen T-shirt from his pillow. He took a sniff. Sex, Beckett and sexiness, plus the barest hint of onion. He piled in three days worth of undergarments, socks, clean pajamas, a casual shirt, the only-slightly-worn shorts he picked up off the floor. His airline toiletry bag. He put his gun, a clip, his fake Canadian passport, and $20,000 worth of Thai money in small bills into a small case that would go fine through screening and customs, projecting an image into x-rays that looked like a set of really embarrassing sex toys. A light waterproof jacket, a suit and two pressed shirts in a garment bag, a mini-steamer for wrinkles (unfortunately it didn't remove the lines left by a pillow after sleeping on one's face: he'd tried.) Sandals, swim trunks, 300 feet of nylon fishing line, some gaff tape, and a water purifying kit. A space blanket, because you never know. Just in case. He really didn't know what he was going to find in Thailand. Don't worry, we'll never know either. But he probably should have brought mosquito netting, too.  
•••

* * *

 **TRIBECA  
** Everything suddenly became clear to Kate: she needed to get the hell out of there, doubts or no doubts. She hurried into her room, stripped, hopped into the shower once more time to shave and exfoliate, then primped efficiently, including some eye drops and a touch of mascara and cherry-scented lip balm that let her natural blush color shine through. She put on her favorite perfume, her favorite earrings, her mother's ring and her father's watch. She donned a gorgeous lavender satin-and-lace bra and panties to match, then slipped on a soft cotton blouse and a broomstick-pleated skirt in a watercolor floral pattern. The skirt belled and fluttered around her hips when she walked, and she knew that with the proper backlighting, it left little to the imagination. The outfit was a good deal more feminine than anything she wore at work; she'd found that if she wore sunglasses and french-braided her hair, she was nearly unrecognizable as the businesslike Detective Kate Beckett. It was the sort of clothing she would have worn on her day off if she'd become slightly-pampered-yet-still-down-to-earth attorney instead of a cop. Of course sunglasses were growing unnecessary; it was past 7 pm, and some thunder clouds had rolled in from the ocean. The sky had that slightly green caste that hinted at imminently interesting weather. It was still sultry-warm, though, and her skin gleamed faintly with perspiration; the strands of hair escaping from her French braid curled into gentle spirals in the humid air. She put a few items in her purse - including the pathetic little note, which she'd tucked into a plastic bag.

She made a quick phone call to the florist's shop she'd poked into earlier, and ordered up some teddy bear sunflowers for delivery to Alexis, gave the address, then changed her mind. "I'll just pick them up on my way there. More personal that way."

She tried Castle's cell phone one more time, and left him a brief voice mail. "Hey, Rick, thanks for today. And for the little packet of treats. But ... I'm not sure what to make of the note. Could you give me a call? I don't want to assume anything." Because no matter what conclusion Kate was inclined to jump to... she could not ignore the evidence. And she wanted to give him some evidence he couldn't ignore, either.

She left her apartment, walking quickly but almost silently in soft-soled leather sandals.

She was on a mission.  
•••

* * *

 **SOHO**  
After rolling his packed suitcase into the office, Rick placed a variety of electronica (including the new phone on its charger cable and his legitimate American passport) into a gorgeous brown leather laptop bag. He stopped on his way out of the office to peruse the shelf, and selected a small, old, hardbound copy of Jack London's Valley of the Moon. (Not Bond? No. He was taking a tiny break from secret agents. He was dealing with enough crap on that level, but again, we don't need to go into it for the purposes of this story.) (Plus if I told you, I'd have to kill you.) He continued out to the kitchen. The catering crew had just finished moving everything needful from roof to kitchen, and they had sheltered the equipment and furnishings left upstairs. Rick reached into the fridge and showed Lance the demolished apple pie. "Maybe you can do something with this," he shrugged. Then he handed Lance seven envelopes: one for himself, and six for his staff. "Make sure everyone gets their tip at the end of the shift, okay?"

Lance grinned. "Thanks, Rick. Have a safe journey."

Rick nodded. "Thanks for your hard work. Everything was delicious, as usual."

He was almost through the door again when Lance stopped him. "Oh, hey, your keys." He returned Rick's key set: one for the building door (which opened the elevator housing) and one for the loft. Rick shoved them into his pocket.

Martha said, "Oh, Richard, speaking of keys – I was upstairs in the guest room powdering my nose, and found this sticking out from under the bath mat. Does it belong to the owner of the lost panties and the blue nitrile gloves?" She waggled her eyebrows. Rick decided not to dignify any of his mother's prying with an answer. He took the key and held it up. "Anyone missing a key? Bronze, TrustiLok Incorporated, Do Not Duplicate, looks like it goes to a deadbolt." There was a moment of silence, and universal variants of "No, not mine."

Richard Castle looked like he had just won the lottery. After giving his mother a resounding kiss goodbye, he wished his friends and frenemies a cheerful "I hate to bug out of here, but I've got a plot bunny to chase. See you all later and thanks for coming!"

In the elevator, he pushed the button and smirked, although he was alone. "Going down."

He was on a mission.

 **END CHAPTER 13**

* * *

 _A/N - the next few days will be crazy, so I am unlikely to update before Sunday 6/5. Have a lovely weekend. Maybe visit the farmer's market... or the bakery... or find any number of ways to treat yourself. :-)_ ** _  
And remember: Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.  
Love_,  
\- CharacterDriven**


	14. HBSB CH 14: 1000 Flowers

**CHAPTER 14  
1000 Flowers**

 _Dear Guests and Readers Who Really Wanted This To Be 100% Comedy -_  
 _For those who really didn't like Chapter 13 because it supposedly didn't get them anywhere, please remain calm. I'm really interested in character development. There's so much we didn't get to know about Rick or Kate. To me, one of the most endearing aspects of the show has been its mix of romance, comedy, and heartfelt drama, mostly expressed by their insecurity and difficulty not with commitment, but with communication. So I'm trying to stay true to the characters. I'm also just sort of "watching the movie" and trying to make sense of it as it pours into my cranium. I do know where the river meets the sea, but I do run into the occasional dam, waterfall, rapids, or sexy swimmin' hole, and I hope you're enjoying the rafting trip as much as I am._

 _About the implied side trip to Thailand: it's not my fault, I swear. I just wrote down the itinerary as it came into my head. :-D_

 _I always thought it was odd that even with following agents in the CIA, nobody really asked him about his actual experiences. He's a crack shot, capable of bringing an opponent down very efficiently, and eventually we find out he's not above using painful interrogation techniques... there's no way he would have lasted so long with the homicide team, without considerable training. He just didn't get it at the police academy. The fact that there's no record of it, and that he doesn't brag about his skills or where he learned them, suggest that he got at least some of his training covertly._

 _I did touch on this in TooSoon, just a little, where I discussed coded information that he'd embedded into the Derrick Storm novels. But I shouldn't expect anyone to remember that. :-D. Anyway, why on Earth did the CIA let him do it in the first place? Well, maybe he wasn't just following them for research. Maybe, as in the situation in Thailand after his disappearance, he had an assignment of his own._

 _Which leads me to wonder (and I don't plan to explore that because I really don't enjoy spy stories that much): what else doesn't he remember? Does he have other episodes of missing time? Where did he go, and what did he do?  
_

 _Chapter 13 was my exploration of the way in which they problem solve: Kate looking at the evidence, Rick looking at the story. They come to the same conclusion by different methods. I just explored that because I have fun doing so. As for Kate's childish behavior... I truly believe that her mom's murder and her dad's alcoholism slapped her with a heavy dose of PTSD that left some of her emotional development just hanging. It's interesting to watch people grow up realizing that they take two steps forward and one step back. This is pretty well documented IRL, and it explains how, even though Kate's very bright and witty, she still plays all the games and has the insecurities of a teenager. She's lucky she's so pretty and smart, otherwise Rick probably would have run screaming after the first case._

 _P.S. thank to those sharp-eyed people who caught a continuity error in Chapter 13, about how Kate got into the building. Not all authors appreciate suggestions to fix mistakes, but I really do. As for plot points, if you don't like the way the story is going, please do write one of your own. ;-)_

* * *

 ** _Special author's note: I am crazy about flowers, but not well versed in their symbology. I'd like to profusely thank the lovely and talented CKRozina, who acted as my floriography consultant and designed a beautiful bouquet to help me get my head around the idea!_**

 **•••**

* * *

 **KATE**

Stepping out of her apartment building with her spare key in her purse (just in case...), she hurried along toward Castle's loft. She could have driven, but then, she didn't have her own cozy little parking space in his basement, and she might have to circle the block for a mile from his building in any given direction, which negated the convenience of driving. As for the subway, by the time she'd waited for the next train, she might as well just have walked anyway. This is a fact of life for most New Yorkers, and one of the reasons why most of them have gorgeous legs.

The rain increased as she walked, to the point where Kate's French-braided hair was soaked and her clothes were nearly translucent, but she really didn't want to go back to her apartment for a jacket. Kate almost wished she'd brought an umbrella. She wasn't crazy about umbrellas; they do nothing against wind, and always made the crook of her elbow hurt.

She stopped in at the florist, the same one she'd window-shopped at that afternoon: Charlie's Floral Fantasy. She didn't buy flowers often. Occasionally for a hostess gift. She usually bought flowers for her mother's grave at the shop near the cemetery, simply because more than once, she'd bought them in advance then had to go out on a call, and they'd gotten banged up through one crimefighting activity or another. So even though this was technically her neighborhood florist, she'd never gone in before that day.

As she entered, a string of little Tibetan bells jingled at the door. The shop had a vaguely French or Bohemian feel, the walls painted cream with accents of soft teal. The shopkeeper – Charlie herself – welcomed her, and Kate said, "I called a little while ago, about the teddy bear sunflowers?"

"Oh, yes, I set them aside for you." Charlie was a tall, pretty woman with warm blue eyes and a kind smile. "I hope you'll pardon me, but the address you wanted me to send them to originally..."

Kate said cautiously, "You're familiar with it?"

"Oh, yes. The Castle family, and of course Ms. Rodgers. You know the Castles?"

"Yes. Mr. Castle's a friend. Just bringing a house present for a little visit. It's a surprise. Thought I'd deliver. "

"It's certainly more fun that way." Charlie had bound the five stems together tightly. "Choose a ribbon and I'll pretty it up."

Kate chose a ribbon in a deep copper satin that set off the green stems and golden-yellow, fluffy flower heads. With quick, skilled hands, Charlie wrapped and knotted the ribbon from the base of the stems to the upper third, which allowed the flower heads to flare out a little into a shape rather resembling a mushroom. They talked while she worked. "Great choice!" Charlie smiled. "Alexis used to love sunflowers when she was little. He'd buy just one and she'd march off with a flower whose head was bigger than she was, dragging the stem along..."

Kate's heart melted. "What a cutie."

"Yes, he is," said Charlie dreamily. Kate couldn't help glancing at Charlie's wedding ring.

Charlie blushed. "I mean, Alexis. She's a teen now, of course, but still pretty adorable. I did a corsage for her middle school dance a couple years back. Strange to think of her dating."

Kate nodded. "She was fourteen when I met her. Sweet kid." She took out some cash and paid for the flowers. "Thanks!"

Charlie said, "You're welcome. Say hello for me!"

Outside, the rain was getting serious. Kate grinned and held the sunflowers aloft a moment above her head, and the yellow petals dripped large splashes onto her scalp and shoulders. "Some umbrella you are," she grumbled amiably. She hurried on toward Castle's loft.

•••

* * *

 **RICK**  
The elevator had descended no more than ten feet when thunder boomed above Manhattan, and he had a moment of trepidation when the car grew dark, then stopped, long enough for him to say, "Ah, shit, no. Really?"

Then the lights flickered back to life, he pressed the down button again, and the ride down to the lobby was smooth as butter. Staggering out of the elevator looking like the hounds of hell had grabbed onto his suitcase with jaws of steel, he looked wildly around the entry. "I thought I was gonna die in there."

Eduardo had worked from 7 to 3 pm, and Johnny, the night doorman, had come on to take his place. He was a nice man, but a bit lax on the security aspects of his job. "Evening, Mr. Castle, everything all right?"

Rick stared at him a moment. "No. Maybe. Yes." Then to Johnny's surprise, he came up to the desk, whipped out a notepad, then started drawing a flow chart, mumbling to himself.

"Okay. I wasn't killed in the elevator, so it's not a tragedy. So if this is a romcom, I go to her place to surprise her but I miss her, and she comes here looking for me, and we figure it out and run into each other on a rainy street corner. If it's a drama, the same thing happens but one of us gets hit by a car and the other assumes they don't care when they really do. We run into each other at a repertory house watching _"An Affair To Remember"_ with our respective other spouses sometime in 2018, and then it's just too late but it would have been so great... or worse, in a DVD rental store. Then we meet again in a nursing home and finally consummate our relationship by sneaking across the hall, only I'm ninety and it kills me. And if it's a horror movie, that thunderstorm conceals the tentacles of almighty Cthulu and a phalanx of elder demons, in which case a bolt of lightning should hit the Dakota Building right... about... now." He glanced out the window.

There was a flash outside, and a roar of thunder less than a mile away, and Castle said, "Oh, that is so _cool_!" Then he stopped abruptly. "Maybe not." It actually was cool, but he had something even more intriguing to pursue than his usual fascination with precognition and the supernatural; namely, Kate Beckett.

He frowned to himself. "Ok, so the big linchpin in this mess is that we don't communicate. My phone's trashed. Now I have a replacement, and if I had a brain in my head, I'd check the messages."

He pulled out his iphone and John said, "I heard people aren't supposed to use cell phones in thunderstorms."

Rick said, "Oh, it's fine," then the hair on both their heads stood up a little, they smelled ozone, and _**KsssSHHSHHSdZZZZzzzt!**_ a flash of lightning stuck its tongue down the gutters of the building across the street, and there was an immediate, ear-splitting

 _ *** ** *** **** ******¡BOOM!****** ***** **** *** ** ***_

The two men ducked behind the security desk. A streetful of car alarms went off like giant, angry mockingbirds.

"Not fine, then," he sighed. Rain was coming down in torrents now, and it quickly turned into pea-sized hail, and not the Sweet Petite Baby Frozen Peas, either, but the slightly starchy ones about the size of a Pachinko ball.

Rick guessed that if he couldn't go anywhere, neither could Kate. With no inclination to go back up to the party only to extricate himself from it again, he sat down at one of the guest chairs in the lobby, pulled out his Jack London book, and read for a few minutes until the rain had died down to a gentle patter. You might think this is a weird thing to do, in which case you are _not_ the sort of person who resorts to reading when they need a short escape from reality. (In which case, I seriously wonder why we're all here.)

"Okay, John, this is important. I have a friend, named Katherine Beckett – or Kate Beckett – and I'm planning to go out and meet her at her apartment. There is a chance that she will come here looking for me. If she does, ask her to please call me on my cell phone. Don't let her leave without her actually speaking to me, all right?"

"Don't let her leave?" John looked doubtful.

"Right, that won't go over well. Please just tell her that I have her apartment key, and I have gone to her apartment to return it. I'm going to drive my car, so that I don't get caught in the rain."

"Okay, Mr. Castle."

"Rick. So if she does show up, tell her I will drive back to pick her up. No matter what, have her call my cell phone. I checked the weather a few times this morning before the party, and it's supposed to blow through quickly. This storm won't last forever."

Castle rolled his suitcase down to the garage, placed it in the Mercedes trunk, and pulled the car out into the freshly-washed evening. He opened his window and peered up at the clouds above; they certainly didn't seem to be harboring any Lovecraftian monsters. In fact the storm was already passing away to the northwest, to vent the last of its wrath on the Hudson River Valley.

•••

* * *

 **KATE**

As the storm intensified, Kate's skirt and blouse became soaked through, and she ducked into a little British pub for shelter. She stood close to the door, trying to contain her dripping to the mat. The waitress seated her at a small, round table near the window, and brought her a menu. "Dinner?"

"No, thanks, just a half-pint of hard cider and..." She paused. It actually was past dinner time, and the last thing she'd eaten had been delicious, but... not strictly _food._ She regretted having impulsively trashed that little care package of pastries from Rick. "I'm really craving a banger, but I already had a sausage today."

The waitress hid a smirk. "How about calamari rings? Those are good. We cut the rings ourselves and they're beer-battered."

"Perfect. Do you have any vegetables?"

"Salad or a side of baby carrots sauteed in ginger butter."

"Ooh. Carrots. Perfect."

The pub's business was slow because of the rain, and wouldn't pick up until 8 when, according to the live music schedule chalkboard on the wall, the band would begin playing ( _Tonight: The Heartstoppers! Irish Rockers meet Ann Wilson meet Tom Petty!_ ).

The waiter brought her drink quickly, and her food shortly thereafter. Kate sat watching the rain, eating crispy calamari drizzled with lemon juice and drinking slowly, listening to the rain and observing the somewhat kitschy décor, with faux half-timbered walls.

She found herself feeling oddly nostalgic. It had been twenty years since she'd been to England – only once with her parents, when she was thirteen. They'd gone all over the little green country on a rather excruciating road trip, including touring the Houghton Tower where the Gunpowder Plot was hatched, and also the Tadcaster brewery. She hadn't sampled any of the ales, of course, but she never forgot the smell, which wafted slightly through the pub here and now in New York. She'd loved the immense draft horses at the brewery, their vanilla-golden coloring, the way their warm, velvety noses felt on her hands. Her dad had gotten a little smashed during the beer tasting, and they had an exciting moment on the way to Mother Shipton's Cave when Johanna forgot which side of the road she was supposed to be driving on, and it had been raining steadily for two days. Johanna overcorrected, the car skidded and spun out off the narrow road and into a low tree branch, breaking the rear passenger window. Fortunately Kate had been sitting behind the driver's seat. They all got a few bruises and scratches, otherwise none of them were seriously hurt. But that kind of adrenaline jolt stays with you for life.

Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled several times – one flash came from Soho and they all felt the ground shake, very slightly, as the thunder roared through.

A man sitting alone at the next table smiled over at Kate. He was very handsome and mostly drunk. "Guess you're not scared of a liddle thunder, are ya?"

Kate said, "Nope. I just hope my... boyfriend had the sense to get off the roof." What a strange word. _Boyfriend_. Man-friend. Lover. Best friend. Her Imaginary Rick was sitting across the table from her, nursing a single malt, chin resting on the heel of his left hand. He was singing softly, _"Me and my shadow, strolling down the avenue..."_

"You have a boyfriend?"

"Yes. He's the jealous type."

Imaginary Rick said, " _You tell 'im, Beckett."_

"Ever have a threesome?"

Kate looked at the man stonily. "It's not gonna happen with you."

Handsome Drunk Guy just blinked at her. She stabbed at a tender little baby carrot with her fork and went back to eating, staring out the window, but she felt it was time to move on, rain or no rain. She signaled for her check, and after her last sip of cider, paid her bill, and left with purse in one hand and the sunflower bouquet balanced on her shoulder like a musket.

Outside, the rain had concealed any sunset, and the evening had moved straight into darkness. She walked in the drizzle, which was reasonably warm now (the cold, icy front having passed with the lightning). She noted suddenly that the rain had brought down her first leaves of autumn. She stopped and picked up a trio of red maple leaves, then tucked their stems into the sunflowers' deep-orange bow. The combination of colors brought it from gorgeous to stunning.

By the time she approached the corner of Crosby and Broome, Rick was in his basement parking garage, trying to decide between the Ferrari and the Mercedes. It was an easy decision, because the Mercedes was less flashy. He didn't need flash. He needed comfort.

He needed Kate.  
•••

* * *

 **KATE**

As Kate walked into Rick's building, the elevator door opened into the lobby, and two caterers emerged, pushing a large utility cart laden with plastic food prep buckets and a couple of full bus tubs.

Kate stepped up to the doorman, whom she didn't recognize. "Hi, I'm here to see Richard Castle."

She was distracted by a whoop from one of the caterers, who couldn't wait any longer to open her tip envelope. "Oh, my GOD!"

The other caterer, a middle-aged woman with an obviously sore back, rolled her eyes. "How much did you get?"

"Nuh-uh. Open your own. Come on."

The woman opened her envelope, stared into it, and leaned her back against the wall, winded. "Oh my god is right," she said quietly. She pressed her fingers over her eyes.

"What is it, Anya?"

"I can pay my rent. It was due on the first."

"Whoa. Good timing."

"Yeah," Anya said. "I almost didn't take this job. Man, what a Godsend."

The two caterers rolled the cart up to the doorman's station. "I'm Nailah Mutumbe, signing out."

"Anya Petar."

"Thanks, Ladies." Johnny ushered the caterers through the lobby to the door, and opened it for them. "You got a good tip, huh?"

"Hell yeah," said Nailah. "Mr. Castle's a good guy. Throws a good party even when he has to leave halfway through."

"A little crazy, but yeah," said Johnny. "Stay dry, ladies."

"Yeah, thanks, goodnight!"

He turned back to speak to Ms. Beckett, but she was already gone, the elevator headed up to the eighth floor.

•••

* * *

 **RICK**

He drove toward Beckett's apartment, passing the farmers' market block and the little park where he'd seen Kate sitting on the wall, eating a churro, just that morning and mulitple kisses ago. He continued on about a mile, and noticing Charlie's Floral Fantasy, he smiled to himself. There was a parking space, right there. Who was he to argue with the Parking Gods?

He went into the shop, a quirky little place specializing in artistic, personalized arrangements. Both he and Martha were regular customers, buying fresh flowers for the loft, or bouquets for holidays and theatrical events.

A little Tibetan door bell clinked as he stepped in. Charlie, the florist, was sweeping up. She was a tall, slender woman with kind blue eyes, and if he'd been ten years older and not in love with Beckett, and if Charlie hadn't been _very_ married, he definitely would have hit on her. "Oh, hello, Rick!"

"Hey, Charlie. Crazy storm, yeah?"

She chuckled. "Yeah. I think my last customer nearly drowned on..." she hesitated and gave him a rather odd look. "On the way here." She gestured rather apologetically at her broom. "Just closing up. What can I get for you tonight?"

"Hm. Do you know anything about floriography?"

"The language of flowers," she said dreamily. "Yes! Was there a particular message you'd like to convey?"

"I want to scatter petals. A whole lot of petals. A carpet of them! They should be fragrant, and... soft colors, I think.. Lavender, pink, purple, blue, maybe some white... I'm looking for things like loyalty, true love, devotion, kindness, friendship, peace."

"Well, I have one spray of lilac, they're force-bloomed from a farm in south New Zealand."

"It's spring there."

"Yes. They're lovely, but they're incredibly expensive. I just have the one, left over from a wedding." Cost rarely phased Castle, and it didn't now.

"I need more, though... sweet peas?" He liked the shape of sweet peas. The little button in the middle. The flaring petals.

"Not till spring. They get pretty anemic if they sit in storage too long." She looked into her flower coolers. "Hm. Roses of course, but most of these are bred for looks. Lilies; maybe a few delphiniums. Look, the light-blue one's match your eyes! Some lavender... Ooh. Asters for patience."

Rick laughed. "We'll want extra asters, I think. Oh, and I like the little white lanterns."

"These lilies of the valley won't work for scale with the rest of the flowers... but you can always scatter them around, they smell like heaven! Mmm-hmm. Some trailing rosemary spilling out of the sides."

He smiled. "For remembrance."

"Exactly. But no rue for you." She loved improvising. She practically danced around the flower shop, selecting a bit of this and that. "Oh, a few gardenia blossoms, but you have to be careful, they smell amazing but bruise like crazy."

He nodded. She put together a stunning bouquet. "Now, remember to place the stems in water until you're ready to make a mess of your apartment. And be sure to sweep up after. Those lilacs will start leaving a trail the minute you walk out of the shop." She wrapped the bouquet in a cone of transparent, iridescent acetate that set off the jewel-like colors perfectly.

"Oh," he said. "One more thing, I need some of those teddy bear sunflowers delivered to my place. For Alexis."

Charlie smiled, tying a lush, lavender-colored satin bow on to the bouquet. "Well... since you mention it... it was supposed to be a surprise. But they've already been picked up and paid for."

He blinked. "But I hadn't even ordered them yet. Oooh, Psychic Florist?"

"No. A woman came by, she was going to have me deliver the flowers then she changed her mind."

Castle said, "My ex-wife?'

"Pfft. Ms. Cowell? She orders from that hack on the other side of Broadway. Makes his life a living hell." She shook her head and gestured to about 5'9". "No, this lady's a brunette. Tall."

If getting Kate's key made Rick look like he'd won the lottery, this was like he'd won a rocket ship and a pony. "Drop-dead gorgeous?"

Charlie nodded. "Looked a little like that model who married that rock star. From the Cars. Not the one who was photographed with the snake..."

"Nastassja Kinski?" (he'd had that poster in his room in his early adolescence, and it wasn't just because he liked boa constrictors).

"Yes. It wasn't Nastassia Kinski, she looked like..." Charlie snapped her fingers, thinking. "Paulina!"

"Poriskova. Married Rick Ocasek."

"Yes! She looked like her. Lucky thing, because he was really funny-looking."

"So she looked like Paulina Poriskova. And she bought teddy bear sunflowers for me?"

"No, for Alexis. At first she wanted me to wait and deliver them tomorrow, then decided she wanted to take them by your apartment tonight."

Rick took a deep breath. "Kate Beckett took the sunflowers to my loft?"

"Well, I almost never tattle who purchases what. It can be a delicate business, but... since you're all winding up at the same place... and I don't actually know her name, only what she told me about you and Alexis..." she shrugged. "I won't tell you it wasn't her."

Rick beamed at her. "Thank you. Thank you so much!"

•••

* * *

 **KATE**

Kate knocked on the loft door a few moments later. She could hear someone playing the grand piano, and a woman singing, her voice a rich alto:

" _Just when I start opening doors,_

 _Finally knowing the one that I wanted was yours...  
making my entrance again with my usual flair_

 _Sure of my lines  
No one is there..." _

The door was opened wide by a small, round man with a white beard. He chuckled, looking her up and down. She realized her underwear was probably ghosting through the fabric.

He said, "We were expecting hookers and blow, but I guess you'll do."

Kate gave serious thought to pulling her badge out of her purse just to watch him pee himself, but decided against it. Ursula called past him. "Shut up, George." Kate stared as the older woman approached her; she'd recognize the straight silver bangs and the sardonic smile and the wise eyes anywhere. "Don't mind George. He has no respect for..."

"Anyone," said George cheerfully. "Not a bit."

Kate, meanwhile, was hopelessly fangirling, her hands sweating, now acutely aware her clothes were sopping and rather see-through. She realized half her favorite writers were in the room, and nearly all of them had turned to look at her. Also present were three writers she really couldn't stand. But most importantly, the one writer she'd come to see was not forthcoming. It was like a lovely dream turning into a horrible nightmare. "Richard Castle?" she croaked.

And then to Kate's wildly mixed feelings of chagrin and relief, Martha Rodgers noticed someone was at the door, and climbed carefully down from the piano, assisted by a couple of doting admirers.

"Katherine! It's been so long!" Martha was playing the hostess, but Kate could see that something about her was curiously reserved. "Do come in!"

Kate stepped into the loft, and Ursula said, "You look like you can probably use a drink."

Kate said, "No, thanks, I, uh, Thank you. For your books. Thank you."

Ursula nodded. "Thank you for reading."

Then Kate was enfolded in a perfume-scented air kiss, and Martha leading her into the kitchen. "Such lovely flowers. What's the occasion?"

Kate stared down at Martha's bright blue eyes, eyes that rarely missed anything, just like her son's. "They're for Alexis. For Castle to give her. When he's gone but she's here."

Although not particularly clearly in this case, Martha said, "I see." She found a tall, heavy vase in a low cupboard, and they talked as she filled the vase with water. "That's such a kind gesture. I'm sure that, after all this time not hearing from you, Richard will be surprised to hear you stopped by." Kate intuitively recognized this was at the core of Martha's slight reserve, and it was totally understandable. Martha pulled a large floral frog out of a bottom utility drawer, and placed the sunflowers in the vase, using the heavy frog's sharp prongs to weight and keep the flowers upright. "These are stunning. I'm sure she'll appreciate them. So would Richard, but he's already left."

Kate looked like she'd been punched. "Left?" she quavered.

The Man Without A Muse was still playing at the keyboard, with tears streaming down his face. He was singing on his own now, and it was not pretty.

" _Send in the clowns, there ought to be clowns, don't bother, they're here."_

"Yes, he packed a suitcase at least an hour ago, said he had... well, I'm not exactly certain what he intended, but I know he plans to fly out tomorrow morning. Maybe he decided to leave town early." She shrugged a little. "Perhaps it's all for the best, considering."

Kate didn't move for a long moment.

Martha fiddled with the flowers, repositioning them slightly and pulling a few prickly leaves out of the water's reach. She paused and said gently, "Are you all right, dear?"

"I, uh, I'm sorry I missed him." She swallowed.

"Can I do anything to help?"

Kate shook her head. "I should go. I'm sure it's enough of a challenge for you, hosting his party after he bailed on it." She took a couple of steps out of the kitchen, then remembered the real excuse for her having returned to the loft. "I just wonder, did anyone happen to find my key?"

Martha stopped cold, her eyes sparkling, and Kate could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. "Your _key_?"

"Yes. I think I dropped it here this afternoon."

The room went quiet.

 **END CHAPTER 14**


	15. HBSB Ch 15: Opening Doors

A.N. - I took a long time to write 14 and 15, then realized it went on for-flippin'-ever, so decided to divide it and give myself a little extra time to edit 15. SO this is a double-your-pleasure weekend. Sorry I left you hanging!

My Imaginary Rick asks, " _And why are 'pleasure' and 'leisure' so similar in meaning, yet so differently spelled? Damn you, etymology."  
_

 **CHAPTER 15  
Opening Doors  
**

* * *

 **KATE**

"Yes, I came by, well, we ran into each other, and I had a wardrobe malfunction." She was barely holding it together. "I bumped into a vat of olive oil at the farmer's market and he let me take a shower in the upstairs bathroom."

"When? Today?"

"Yes, at the farmer's market," she repeated inanely, and her little chin started to tremble. "I was shopping for parsnips." She looked down at her hands and almost whimpered: "We made... we made brioche."

Martha's demeanor did a complete one-eighty degree turnaround. "That key was _yours_?" she fluttered excitedly. She could now conclude that the slim little ankle in her son's ardent clasp had also been Kate's, but even Martha had a sense of public decorum, and she could see that Kate was already embarrassed enough.

Kate gestured vaguely to the second floor. "Yes, I think I might have dropped it in..."

"In the upstairs bathroom! Oh, this is wonderful news!" Martha added more quietly, "Those weren't your panties, were they?"

Kate wrinkled her nose. "No. I think they might have been part of an old superhero costume or something."

"So I thought. But you were, indeed, here earlier today."

"Yes, I left around, maybe 1:20?"

Martha gave her a hug, and this one felt genuine. Shocked, Kate patted gingerly at Martha's back.

"Oh, you poor dear!" Martha exclaimed.

Kate switched from near-despair to near-panic. "What? Is everything okay?"

"My darling Katherine, judging by the look on his face when I handed him that key, there is only one place he would have gone."

"Where?"

"Your apartment!"

Kate could say nothing, merely gawped at her. Martha took up the phone and autodialed her son, then she frowned. "Well, for whatever reason, he's not picking up. His phone got knocked off the roof today – thank Heavens nobody was killed - "

Kate brightened. "His phone's _broken_?"

"Yes, and you seem inordinately happy about it."

"I've been trying to reach him for hours."

"Oh, no!" Martha's eyes widened, and she patted Kate's arm in sympathy. "Maybe the account hasn't switched over to the new one yet. But if he has your key..."

If Kate's smile wattage had been transferred into a North Atlantic lighthouse on an iceberg in 1912, the Titanic would have changed course three hours early. She said, "You really think he's there?"

One of the writers – Stephen – approached quietly, and spoke in a whisper. "I'd be willing to bet on it."

Kate then noticed that the room had gone almost deadly silent. The Man Without a Muse had abandoned the piano, and was writing furiously on a cocktail napkin as tears of joy streamed down his cheeks. Every writer in the room was engrossed in their craft, either typing frantically on their laptops or phones, or scrawling at speed with pen or pencil. The woman with the chihuahua had a pink sparkly pen with a magenta puff of marabou on the end that waved as she wrote. The guy who does the graphic novels about fairies was drawing up a storm.

Martha whispered, "What's come over them?"

Stephen nodded his head in Kate's direction and breathed, "They're trying to capture Rick's muse."

Martha whispered, "Why aren't you writing?"

He looked down at Kate's feet. "Ever considered wearing clown shoes?"

"Uh, no," she whispered.

"Oh, well." Stephen went to sit at the kitchen island, writing in a spiral-bound notebook with a black pen. "Never mind, then."

Things had just gotten a little past the weird stage, even for Kate, who had a surprisingly high tolerance. She spoke more loudly. "Well, I must be going. Goodnight, everyone."

Nobody looked up, but every single writer in the room made a familiar gesture, holding up a silent index finger that spoke very plainly: _"Hang on. Just a second..."_

And in that second, Kate was gone, leaving behind over twenty different fictional permutations of herself, all of them seeking a key.

•••

* * *

 **RICK**

Charlie, the florist, went for the upsell. "You should consider some candles. Maybe some massage oil."

"Massage oil?"

She blushed prettily. "I don't just sell flowers. I sell _romance_." She selected a deep-pink candle and let him sniff. "Apricot, ginger, musk and verbena. Sounds awful, but take a whiff. And go with unscented almond oil, lets her own preferred scent shine through."

Rick had worked enough in retail to know the basics of sales, but she had a point. Would Kate have candles? Would she have massage oil? No, and no. Kate Beckett would have a couple of mag lights and a 3-year-old can of cooking spray, or rather, the fumes of cooking spray long used up. "Charlie, your wisdom almost outshines your beauty."

He fished out his wallet and handed Charlie his credit card.

She rang up the sale while he took out his notebook and scrawled away on his flow chart, debating what to do. "Okay, so if Kate goes to the loft, then the doorman tells her to call me. Unless he doesn't recognize her, or he forgets. She takes the sunflowers up, thinking I'm there. Sweet gesture..." he looked up at Charlie. "I wouldn't really have expected this of her, but she has these moments of spontaneous generosity..."

Charlie looked past him quizzically, grabbed another stem of paler blue delphiniums and filled in the bouquet. "No extra charge, it looked a little sparse there. Oooh, they match your eyes!"

"It's okay, I'm going to tear it to pieces and scatter flower petals all over her apartment..." he grinned. "That is if she hasn't been struck by lightning." He stopped, his shoulders stiff with dread. "Did she leave before or after the downpour?"

"Right in the middle. She probably got someplace dry before the sky opened up. It's a Saturday night, she's probably sitting there in a bar with a bundle of sunflowers and a mai tai." Charlie smiled. "Or maybe she's at your apartment right now. Wherever, I'm sure she's just fine."

He took the flowers and looked at them anxiously. "I hope this is worth it. Maybe she's allergic to lilacs. I just wish she'd call..."

"I'm sure she will."

"Hey," he said, "Do you happen to have her home number? I'm pretty sure she has a land line for when the power goes out."

"I couldn't give that out even if I had it. I'm so sorry. Besides, she paid cash."

He nodded. "I understand. So now I have to figure out if I should go back to my loft and see if I can catch her either still there, or head over to her place. And if that doesn't work out, then I guess I'll go stand outside her apartment window with a boombox in my shoulder and serenade her till she either lets me in or shoots me."

"Like John Cusack in _Say Anything_ ," said Charlie.

"Yeah!" he grinned. "Thanks so much. Sorry to keep you so late."

"Take care, Mr. Castle."

"It's Rick. I will. You too, Charlie."

•••

* * *

 **KATE**

The day's mileage was beginning to wear on her, and her sandals really weren't made for running. She hurried downstairs and was stopped by the doorman. "Oh, there you are, are you Ms. Beckett?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Castle said not to let you leave until you call him."

"His phone's not working. Do you know where he went?"

"Your apartment."

Kate beamed with relief. "Great." She took out her phone and the call went straight to his voice mail. "What the hell, Castle?" she gritted. "I'm going over there."

"Ma'am, he axed me to keep you here till he got back if you come over."

Kate tilted her head and gave John her trademarked glare. "You don't really wanna try it, do you?"

"No, Ma'am. Just thought I'd let you know what he said. Looked like he meant it and I don't wanna lose my job."

Kate nodded. "I gotcha. It's on me. I'll sing your praises to the skies." Plus Castle would never have anyone fired for something so petty.

She hurried out and walked a little way, backwards, trying to hail a cab and make a call at the same time. "Mr. Miro? Hi, it's Beckett."

"Oh, Kate, hi, are you locked out again?"

"No, I'm not, but could I ask you a huge favor?'

She could hear the grin in his voice. "I don't knowwwww..." he singsonged. "What's in it for me?"

"A decent bottle of vino and my eternal gratitude?"

"I'm a Scotch man."

"Jameson?"

"Ooh. Done. What can I do ya for?"

"I have a friend coming by, probably. We have a missed connection and I think he's looking for me. Can you please let him into the building and not leave him standing out in the rain? Tell him not to go anywhere and I'll be there as soon as I can?"

"He already came by. Tall guy, kinda old, white hair."

"What?" Kate had a strange feeling crawl down the back of her spine.

"Yeah, he just really wanted to tuck a little pink envelope under your door. I took him up, he did his thing, then he left."

" _White_ hair?"

"Yeah, almost white. Late sixties, early seventies. Tall."

Kate's imaginary Castle squeaked, _"_ _Really? The last few months may have aged me a little but it's not that bad. Hey, there's a taxi._ _"_

"TAXI!" Kate gave her address. "Well, okay, thanks, I don't know what that's about, but my friend is named Richard Castle."

"Who, the writer?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I haven't seen him yet. Hey, didn't he write _'Hell Hath No Fury?'_ With the nympho witches?"

"Yes," Kate sighed. "He did."

"Well okay, then, I'll let him in the building, but I want his autograph."

"I'm sure he'll be delighted," Kate said. "And can you please, _please_ have him call me if he arrives before I do?"

"Sure thing, girlie."

Kate let it slide. "Thank you so much!"

•••

* * *

 **RICK**

Since he was only a few blocks from Beckett's apartment building, and since he'd miraculously managed to find a Saturday night parking space on a street that wasn't slated to be cleaned anytime in the next twelve hours, Rick grabbed his suitcase out of his trunk, slung his laptop bag across his shoulder, and trudged through the rain the rest of the way. He stopped and bought a bottle of what he hoped was a half-decent merlot from the Barbossa Valley of Australia. He'd been there once, visiting a friend. The label brought back happy memories. He tried ringing Kate's call-button, but there was no answer. Then he pulled out his phone and tried to switch it on. Nothing happened. He shook it. Then he wondered why people shake their phones when they're not working. They're not blown-out lightbulbs, but he did it every damn time.

His imaginary Sophia leaned in the vestibule next to him, the light from a bad fluorescent bulb inside flashing greenish on her skin. _"_ _You charged it?"_

"Mother hooked it up to the charging cable. It was seated fine. They don't take that long, do they?"

" _Doesn't it feel a little light to you?"_

 _Fuck_. He opened it up. No battery. _Fuck_. Because he always stored the batteries separately from unused electronics because of leakage and explosions. And there was no reason on earth why Martha would remember to check that.

" _You're too fussy," Imaginary Sophia_ _said. "Not everything in the world is gonna blow up the minute you turn your back on it."_

"That isn't super-helpful right now," he snapped aloud.

A homeless guy shambled past, heard Rick talking to himself, and just kept walking.

Imaginary Kate appeared and shoved Sophia through the wall, and Sophia melted away like a bad dream, nothing but her Cheshire Cat smile lurking in the corner. Dusting her imaginary hands, Imaginary Kate turned to Rick, her eyes flickering amber and brown with a touch of green, the color of a teddy-bear sunflower.

" _Speaking of super,"_ _she said, "_ _The supervisor's apartment is 2C."_ She pointed at the peeling label on the row of doorbells.

"Well, I want 2C you," Rick muttered.

 _Imaginary Kate rolled her eyes._ " _You are an idiot. Never make that pun out loud to another human being. Push the damn button."_

He did just that. A tinny voice responded. "Yo."

Rick was tempted to say, "Esposito?" but he knew it would get him nowhere. "My name's Richard Castle. I'm here to visit Detective Beckett. But she's not answering her doorbell."

"You can wait in the lobby. She said to let you in the building and she'll be home soon." To Rick's eternal gratitude, the door buzzed, and he was inside the building. There were no apartments on the ground floor, just a door to the daytime management office, the laundry room, the exit to the parking garage below, and a couple of not-too-shabby old club chairs next to a spindly _ficus benjamina_ tree. The lobby wasn't glamorous, but it was clean and reasonably well-maintained, notwithstanding the flickering light bulb. The building had been constructed in the late 1910s, he thought, probably as housing during the first World War. No frills, but solid, with fairly graceful lines.

Beckett's apartment was on the third floor. He took the elevator, which was slow and noisy but, he hoped, going someplace wonderful. Most of the elevators in the world seemed to be made by a Mr. Otis, who must have been a busy guy who hated to take the stairs. Rick had a lot in common with him. He thought, "Someday I will adopt an old shelter dog, and he will be slow and noisy, we'll go wonderful places, and I will name him Otis, after this elevator."

He got to Beckett's apartment and pulled out the key. He might have said a little prayer, because who knows? It could have fallen out of anybody's pocket, and writers could be absent-minded. He looked around the short hallway – nobody was there. Guilty as a burglar, he stuck the key in with great care, turned it with even more care, had to jiggle it a little, but – oh, frabjous day! – it worked! He pushed the door open, switched on the light (The click was loud. Old wiring worried him...) and he was in. The door-sweep shoved aside #10-size pink business envelope on the floor. He left the door open so that, in case Kate were to come back before he was done, she would at least know someone had openly let themselves in, rather than breaking in and planning an ambush. In this way, he hoped she wouldn't kick open the door and shoot him.

Working with all speed, he rolled his suitcase inside to stand next to Kate's door (poised for a hasty exit in case she threw him out), then brought the bouquet of flowers over to the kitchen sink. He took out his Swiss army knife and started nipping the blossoms off the stems. He giggled, feeling a little like Morticia Addams, pruning off her roses and keeping the denuded, thorny stems. He found a tray and piled the blossoms on it, and tried to figure out the best pattern of distribution. Even, or graduated? All the colors grouped together or intermixed?

Would it be invasive if he were to go in her room and put flower petals all over the bed?

He had the argument with Imaginary Kate. Yes and no.  
• _Yes_ , she loved him.  
• _No_ , she never liked it when he snooped in her desk.  
• _Yes_ , he loved her and wouldn't judge her room if it was an underwear-strewn mess.  
• _No_ , she wasn't even expecting him to be in her apartment, let alone her bedroom.  
• _Yes_ , he'd already seen much more personal domains than her bedroom, as of that afternoon. She certainly hadn't minded.  
• _Yes_ , it would be fun.  
• _No_ , she was gonna be mad.  
• _Yes_ , she'd get over it. He knew exactly how to make her get over it, and under it, and around it, and into it. All the prepositions, right there on the tip of his tongue.

He decided to just peek into her room. Aside from a few things piled on the dresser, and his jeans and the watermelon T-shirt puddled on the floor, it was reasonably nice and the bed made. He found the room surprisingly feminine, but not fussy; few accessories chosen with care. And books. She had bookshelves in her room, and the bookshelves had actual books in them. You'd be surprised at how rare that is. Thank-you-god, a girl after his own heart.

He scattered the pink and red rose petals on the bed, and some of the white lilies-of-the-valley, and the speckled blushy petals of stargazer lilies. He scattered more blossoms, very deliberately, in a path to her bedroom door, then out to her front door, and just a very few in the hallway to keep the path marked, and three aster flowers, with their cheerful yellow centers and purple petals, all the way back out on the elevator floor. If any of the neighbors complained, he fully expected to be roused later on in the evening – or early in the morning - and made to clean them up, but with any luck, everyone except Kate was in for the night.

The reverse effect of the arrangement would be (if events transpired as he hoped) that she would maybe notice the three flowers in the elevator, then come out to find a gradually increasing flurry of petals (and a few leaves as filler) as she approached her door, more petals in a path from the living room to her bed, and _eh! Voila!_ A bed of roses. _  
_

He closed the apartment door and locked it, understanding that, with her being a cop, leaving it unlocked would be an alarm, not a thrill. He used the corkscrew on his Swiss Army Knife to open the wine, and let it air. What had the supervisor said? That she wouldn't be long. He went to her bedroom door and stared at her bed.

No. Too presumptuous. Downright stupid, especially if he got naked. Forget that.

He did take the time to use the bathroom (he put the seat down when he'd finished. Thank Martha for that bit of training). He grabbed his toiletry bag from his suitcase, washed up a little, flossed and brushed his teeth, because he'd had oysters, garlic bread, etc. Even though they'd been running around like idiots, he could only hope that she'd be happy to see him, and maybe she'd kiss him. Or something like that. If he'd thought it through, he would have eaten a lot less garlic that afternoon. At least the scent of onions had finally faded from his skin.

He cleaned up the floral mess of stems on her kitchen counter as well as he could, and tossed them into her green bin for municipal compost pickup. (This is a good thing, since she had thrown the pastries in her regular trash bin on impulse, and seeing them in there would have busted his poor little heart to pieces.)

He sat down on her couch for a few minutes with his laptop, made some notes, made some changes to his travel itinerary, then he set the laptop aside and closed his eyes - "Just for a moment."

You know how that goes.  
•••

* * *

 **KATE**

Kate took the stairs up to Mr. Miro's apartment (the Castle inside her head said, _"_ _I want 2C you!"_ and she rolled her eyes at him and grinned. _"_ _Shut up!")_

It was nearly 9:00, so she tapped softly on the super's door. She could hear his TV yammering on the other side – he had a bit of a hearing problem – so she knocked a little louder. "Mr. Miro?"

He eventually came to the door. Apparently he was severely under-dressed; all she saw was a meaty naked arm reaching out for the bottle of Jameson. "Thanks, Kate!" he called, and the door was closed. She went to the elevator and called it down, then, feeling like the laziest person in the world, rode up to the third floor.

Someone had left three little purple daisies in the elevator. They weren't much bigger than nickels, and they had yellow centers. Kate was not on a first-name basis with most flowers, but Charlie could have told her they were asters – _aster_ is Greek for star, these being for a higher love than mere romantic passion. Kate started to walk down the hall, poking around in her purse for her keys. After a few steps she noticed a faint tickle on her foot, looked down at her toes, and then she realized there were flowers all down the hallway, with just a few at the elevator. It occurred to her that the trail actually did start with the three tiny asters inside the car – forming a sort of drifting wave up to her door at the end.

But there was no sign of Castle. Unless this _was_ a sign. Maybe he'd come and gone and dashed his floral expectations against her apartment door. She wondered if he'd had the nerve to go in. She mostly hoped _yes_ , despite the many times she'd grabbed his ear and told him not to touch things. And she slightly hoped _no_ , because she hadn't picked up her apartment in a few days and, oh, God, what if he saw those pastries in the trash? They both had some explaining to do on that count.

She turned the key and entered. There was a path of blossoms and petals from the front door to her bedroom. The light was low, and the room smelled almost overwhelmingly of gardenia and lily and maybe ginger and apricots and musk and desire. A votive candle burned next to a bottle of wine and two empty glasses. And an exhausted Richard Castle was slumped, sound asleep, on her sofa.

 **END CHAPTER 15**


	16. HBSB ch 16: Little Pink

**CHAPTER 16**

 **Little and Pink**

 _He ran through the airport, calling out, but not sure of the name. He tried to read the airline logos and destinations, but all the letters were scrambled. He was looking, and looking, but he just couldn't find her, but who 'she' was kept shifting. Alexis wasn't under the coat rack, and Sophia hadn't shown up to their rendezvous in Thailand, and Mother wasn't backstage, and Kate wasn't in the break room, and Meredith was in their bed with someone else, and Alexis' voice over the phone was saying something about lunch in Antarctica, and Beckett had disappeared into the mirror maze – for a moment he could see her banging on the glass, not knowing she wasn't herself, and then she turned into the sliding shadow-face that was almost but not really Nikki Heat. And she wasn't on his roof, and he was moving through a party but he couldn't really get a glimpse of any faces from behind their masks although they all seemed to bear some resemblance to Gina, grasping and clawing with painted nails, and the wrong woman was in the shower, and there was nobody in the laundry room, or at Gate 17 now boarding for Heathrow... most importantly she wasn't where he could see her, or touch her, and exactly who was he looking for? All he knew was that the man with white hair was after them, and she would never, ever be safe, but he had to get to her. And what if she had the kittens? Would he be able to carry all of them without dropping the flowers?_

 _He was in the temple in Thailand, and there was something about a lock he could never pick, and a door he could never open, and the control room for a satellite that could never land. A white-haired man emerged from the shadows, and Rick couldn't tell whether he was friend or foe. He heard the right voice then, calling his name softly, just as the man with white hair raised his gun to Kate's temple. The other kind of temple. The room began to spin. He felt a hand on his shoulder. "No," he said. "Let her go."_

Kate repeated his name. "Castle. Rick. It's all right."

He sat up suddenly, blinking, trying to focus without his contacts. Before him a vision in white shimmered, half-lit by the soft gold of one candle: Kate, with her deep liquid eyes, in a white blouse and silky, thousand-pleated watercolor skirt. She stood straight and still, barefoot, with her lavender underwear glowing through wet clothes that could have been carved from alabaster.

"Am I dead?" he squeaked.

"No," she chuckled. "We're both very much alive."

He rubbed his eyes, trying to calm his breath. There was sweat on his forehead and the room seemed muggy and smelled like a Thai temple: flowers and ginger. "I thought you were an angel."

She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "I fully intend to disabuse you of that outright fallacy."

He grinned sleepily at her. "Big words."

"They're a mouthful," she agreed, took his hand, and tried to pull him to his feet, but he shook off the nightmare, grinned and resisted, hoping to pull her onto his lap.

"You've been all over New York. One step further and you can be all over me."

She said, "Nope. Get up. Let's go see what the Flower Fairy did to my bedroom."

He stood up and looked down at her, then glanced at her open bedroom door with its path of flowers. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "Do you want any wine?"

"No," she said. "I want to be completely lucid for this."

"This what?" he smirked. He was starting to feel wide awake. All over. His arms had that familiar ache of wanting to hold her, and he indulged them, pulling her in close, their bodies aligned. He breathed into her hair, which was damp and smelled of rain. "You're soaking wet."

"I certainly am." She kissed him, a long, deliriously slow kiss, and all he could do was anything, ever, that she wanted, to keep on feeling this way. He kept his hands on her waist, delaying the gratification of slipping them under her cold, clingy blouse.

He said, "We should get you out of these wet clothes. Much as you're a vision in them."

She murmured into the sensitive nerves at the juncture of his throat and shoulder, punctuating her words with a ripple and sweep of her little pink tongue. "We should get you out of your clothes, too." She nodded over at his suitcase by the door. "Do you have any pajamas in there?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to wear them to bed?"

He smirked. "Not really." Then his eyebrows shot up. "You're asking me to stay? We haven't even..."

"If you like. Martha said you might have changed your flight plans. Said you might be flying out earlier."

His blue eyes sparked in the candlelight. "I'm not flying out till Monday morning."

Kate seemed a little excited, a little shy at this. It suddenly occurred to her that they were going deep, very quickly. "You changed your flight last-minute?"

"I have enough frequent flyer miles to ship the entire population of Grover's Mill to the Bermuda Triangle. Free of charge."

"So theoretically, you could spend the next 38 hours with me. If you wanted to."

His face telegraphed hope. "If you can put up with me. What time is it?"

"About 9:30."

"Okay, 34 hours. It's an early flight." His hands decided to take an early flight up her lower back to knead the tight muscles between her shoulder blades.

She hummed appreciatively. "Mm."

"With the added benefit of my not having to sit next to Gina."

"What, and miss the Spanish Inquisition?"

He sighed. "Yeah. We'll meet up in Seattle. A couple of book signings and then she'll chain me to a desk in my hotel room for an hour to pry a chapter out of me."

"She won't be... on top of you?"

"No. But maybe I'll take her down to the fish market and have someone lob a salmon at her. Just to remind her of how I really feel."

Kate tutted. "To be fair, we might not have made it this far if she hadn't called us both out."

He nodded. "You're right. I should buy her a gift."

" _We_ should. Not flowers," Kate nibbled on her lower lip. "I know, maybe a muzzle."

He said, "If you're gonna be nibbling on anyone's lip, can you make it mine?"

She surged up into him and he met her with a solid wall of warmth. They pressed together, drowning each other with kisses. But when he hitched the damp blouse up around her ribs, he felt the cool skin underneath. "Okay, this is all coming off," he resolved. He picked her up, bridal style, and carried his giggling partner - _partner!_ \- into the bathroom with her arms around his shoulders to help support her weight. It was dark, so she reached out and switched on the night light by feel. He stopped a moment and stared at their reflection in wonder.

"Look at that," he breathed.

Kate Beckett looked... happy. And surprised. Because they... fit.

He smirked. "We look like the cover of a romance novel."

"Close, but if this were a romance novel, you wouldn't be wearing a shirt, and I'd be be like this:" Kate pretended to swoon, arching her throat back. "Release me, Lord Castle!"

"From what?"

"My clothes! Before I get the vapors or you tear a bicep tendon!"

"Yay! And verily!" He swung her down to her feet. "Let's peel you out of these things." He worked his way down the placket,

one

kiss

for

each

button,

revealing the creamy skin and the lacy lavender bra, then slipped the blouse from her shoulders. She shivered slightly, goosebumps raising. He said, "Did you want to warm up in the shower?"

She shook her head. "I've already taken three today. And you?"

"Four. I'm good." He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her shoulders, then whipped his own shirt and undershirt off. "Now we must huddle together for warmth, like orphans in the snow," he chuckled. "Think we'll survive the night without getting eaten by polar bears?"

Silently, focusing on their bodies more than the words themselves, she leaned her head against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart, his beautiful voice, and the rumbling volubility of a clearly nervous man. He rubbed the towel over her shoulders and in her damp hair, still babbling a little. "Feeling warmer? Whew! Your hands are cold!" She stroked her hands down his sides, feeling the muscles twitch and ripple, then an involuntary thrust of his hips when she reached under his waistband to tickle his lower back. "Oh, you know that spot, do you?"

She grinned, and he felt her cheek lift against the muscle of his breast. "I do now."

His pants were now slightly damp from the match of their thighs, with her wet skirt between the two of them.

He slipped the skirt's elastic waistband down, exposing her slim waist and taut belly. "Wow, this lighting reveals the heretofore mythical feminine eight-pack!" She laughed, and he blew a raspberry on her tummy, and she laughed again and the skirt belled out as it puddled around her ankles. He bent to pick it up as she stepped out of it, which left his line of sight with her pubic bone, her sex barely hidden behind the soft lavender lace. He straightened up. "Charlie picked flowers that matched your underwear," he grinned. "How did she know?"

"I've been in a wet T-shirt for most of the evening," Kate said. "Everyone knows. Your mother knows. My waitress at dinner knows, and the drunk guy who sat at the table next to me knows. Your caterer knows, your night doorman knows, and every single writer at your party is now spilling their thoughts about my underwear onto the smooth and unblemished page of their imagination."

"I don't know about 'unblemished'" he snorted. "Your landlord?"

"No, but I think he was naked on the other side of the door, and I'm really glad he didn't come out to say hello."

He arched an eyebrow as he dried her waist, her belly, her butt and hips, her legs one at a time. She shivered slightly, and he ran a finger up the inside of her right thigh, put gentle pressure across the soft mound with the back of his hand. "Should I leave that part wet?"

She gasped at the sensation, then nodded, and he trailed his finger down her left thigh, to tickle the back of her knee, and she twitched. "Actually, I should brush my teeth and pee, while I'm here. I've been running around for hours." She pointed to her bathrobe on the door hook. It was a heathery-blue, jersey cotton knit, lightweight for summer. "Can you please hand me that?"

He nodded and helped her into it. "Bye-bye, little eight-pack," he said, looking for all the world like a sailor leaving shore forever.

She rolled her eyes. "Just au revoir. If you're good, maybe another bonjour later on tonight."

He looked down at his crotch and rumbled, "How do you say ' _Schwing!'_ in French?

"Le Schwing?" Kate smirked. "Now I'm gonna kick you out for a moment's privacy."

He didn't argue.

* * *

She emerged a few minutes later and found the living room dark. He'd brought the candle into her bedroom, and there were a couple of glasses of ice water by the bed, casting tiny golden shivers of dancing, refracting light. He was sitting on her bed, half-lit and still in his pants, looking down at the large hands splayed on his thighs.

"Hey," she said softly. "You all right?"

She leaned her hip against the doorway and took a water glass from the night table.

"I've never done this before."

"Done..." she shook her head with a bemused smile. "Exactly what?"

"I've had a lot of first times." He blew out a long, slow breath, ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I've been with a lot of women."

Kate nodded. "I've maybe been with one or two myself."

He laughed. "Now, don't try to get me worked up, it's too short a trip."

She chuckled. "Farbeit from me."

He grew serious again. "Like I said earlier, it's always been such a... rush. Like I was either trying to win something, or..." he looked down at the floor, a little shamed. "Just in it for the … I don't know. Fun. Connection. Release. Maybe to stave off loneliness."

"I've been there," Kate nodded.

"So how do we..." he shrugged. "I've never been..." he looked almost frightened, as if expecting a blow. "I already love you. It feels backwards."

Her eyes went wide. "I, uh." She swallowed. "Wow, when you put it that way..."

"Sorry," he looked over his shoulder at the bed, which had flowers and petals scattered all over the quilt. He picked up a magenta rose petal and flicked it against his index finger until it cracked quietly in half. "You don't have to say any..."

"I already love you too!" she said.

He said, "In another time, this would have all been arranged for us. And being stubborn, we probably would have hated each other."

"Well, I could have my dad show up with a shotgun and march us down to city hall, if you feel like you need to make an honest woman of me."

He ducked his chin, just slightly, his eyes never wavering from her. She could tell he was trying not to look like it had already crossed his mind.

"You're already an honest woman. As of this morning. As in you stopped lying about how you feel." His smile twitched, and she could see he was afraid he'd said too much.

Her voice was tinged with regret. She'd made this man - this lovable, decent, devoted man, walk on eggshells too many times. "I seem to have grown more honest as the day's gone along." She took his hand and laced her fingers through his.

A hint of reserve crossed his face. "So have I. But it wasn't enough."

"Wasn't... What is it, Castle? You? With skeletons in your closet?"

"Yes." He bit his lip, and patted the mattress beside him, but not too close.

She sat next to him, worried. His voice was low.

"This trip I'll be taking. There's a side trip. To Thailand."

"Wow."

"Just for a couple of days. I don't even know much about it, I won't know..."

"What?"

"I followed someone in the CIA for a while."

"Researching the Derrick novels. But that's over, right?"

"Not exactly." He hesitated. "Kate..."

She slipped her hand to grasp the inside of his arm, cupping his bicep, trying not to be distracted by the power she could feel under the soft skin. "It's okay, Rick, you don't have to tell me."

"No secrets, Kate, not if we're really... in this."

She said softly, "I'm in." She leaned up and kissed his cheek. Turned his face toward hers with a steady hand. "Okay. So what is it?"

"The deal is, you can't tell anyone else. Not anyone. It might get them killed."

"Should you be telling me?"

He looked down at his hands again, speaking quietly. "No. Except that if I don't... you'll figure it out eventually, and there we'll be, with you running risks I just... can't bear to let you take."

"Castle, I'm a grown woman. I'm a cop."

"You are, and so much more." He gave her a brief, admiring, tense glance. "And you'll be pissed as hell at me for holding the information back. You might..." he shrugged. "You might throw me out tonight and never speak to me again. But if the CIA has warring factions, has illegal cover operations, you don't have the power to go up against either side. Neither do I. Does that make sense to you?"

"Are you doing something illegal?"

"Not that I know of."

"Ignorance of the law doesn't get you off."

"I know," he sighed. "I wish I could back out of it. I wish I'd backed out of it years ago. But I see what that shit does to people, Beckett. I've gotten some people to talk, I've helped, just a little, to bring these bastards down, but there are always more."

"What is it?"

"A heroin cartel. They have links all over Asia. They're tied to human trafficking, arms dealers, money laundering. There are blind alleys, political deals..." he shifted in his seat, almost excited now. "It's a cool story. It would be a cool book, if I could tell anyone openly. There are messages, in code, scattered in text in the Derrick books, used to transmit information covertly. I worked with an encryption expert."

"Wow."

"Wow, except someone killed him. And there's a trail of dead agents, a trail of lost drugs and missing money."

"Why you?"

"You know me, Beckett. I put people at ease. People talk to me. It's all the devil-may-care bumbling around."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel," she guessed. "Ignore the goofy dilettante with the errant libido..."

He quirked a smile, appreciating the attempt to lighten his fears. "So I'm going to a party in Thailand. I'm going to ride on the back of an elephant with a guy who might be making most of his money selling children. I'm going to try to find out where those children are, and I'm going to find out who's laundering the money to make it all look like he's a legitimate businessman with a nice teak plantation."

"Holy shit, Castle."

"Yeah," he whispered, swallowing. "But there's something else."

He turned to her, took her hand lightly between his. "A name. I need to warn you about it, because it concerns you." His voice went lower, as if he were afraid her apartment might be bugged. That couldn't be. Could it?

"How?"

"You might, not now. Maybe never. But you might... be following a lead, a trail, something to do with the narcotics trade or money-laundering in New York. And this is where you have to be careful, because if the wrong person winds up dead, it could lead you to an organization called LOKSAT."

"Locksat?"

 _"LOKSAT."_

"Is it an acronym? Ooh. _'Lots of Killer Sneaky Assassin Types'_ ," she half-giggled. At the look on his face, she grew serious. "LOKSAT."

"Yes, and if that happens, you have two choices. Either run – and run fast, and run to ground and offgrid, so far nobody can find you, not even me – or go balls-out in public. Plaster that word everywhere, on every conspiracy website and post office wall and … and baseball game blimp, Times Square, anyplace you can. Make it impossible to ignore, because otherwise, no place in this green little planet will be safe for you. Or me. Or our family." He corrected himself. "Families."

Kate's liquid eyes bored into his, flashing amber in the candlelight. "What you're telling me, Castle, is that you, Millionaire Playboy Author Guy, are actually a spy."

He shrugged, a mix of pride, worry, and embarrassment flitting across his face.

She said, "At the risk of sounding exactly like you, which I fight with all the time because there's now a version of you living in my head... That's kind of hot."

"It is?" he squeaked.

"I knew there was something..." she shifted on the bed. "Come on, lie down next to me." She lay back, smiling up at the ceiling, and he stared at her in astonishment.

"You're not mad?"

"Not really... No." She watched the candle-shadows dancing on the ceiling. "I actually feel better. I've known from the start that you were hiding something, and it held me back. You're too good a shot. You take people down with so little effort. There've been times when you've made it look like it was all me when..." she glanced at him. "I'm not saying every time. And I'm not saying I can't do it on my own. But you've made it easier, once you get out of your own way."

He smiled a little. "Thanks. I was hoping."

She said, "So can you forgive my lack of trust in you at first? Every instinct in me was conflicted. You wrote like an angel and acted like an ass. You knew exactly what you were doing, and pretended you didn't."

"HA!" he barked. "My cunning plan has succeeded!"

"How so?"

"I'm making this up as I go along and I don't have a fucking clue." He flopped back on the mattress next to her, with his feet hanging off the bed.

"Oh, come on, Castle, you gonna scoot on up and stay awhile?"

He half-twisted on his side, angled to look up toward her jaw. "I'd love to, but there's another... thing."

She tipped a sharp glance down at him and huffed. "Spill."

He opened his mouth and shut it again, and she smirked. "Okay, save it up. Whatever."

"I have a really good memory."

"I know."

"I mean... _really_ good. If I have context I can remember... anything. Everything."

She frowned slightly. "And?"

"There was a list of names. I ran across it, oh, around 2004. Potential Assets or Liabilities. A watch list. I can speed read, but I only got a glimpse in near-dark."

She just blinked at him.

He continued. "Your name was on it."

"Kate Beckett?"

"Katherine Houghton Beckett."

"Why would you remember that?"

"Houghton-Mifflin Publishing turned me down out of hand, and it was clear they were snickering when they wrote the rejection note. Not a surname I'd forget."

She frowned slightly. "Watch List? By whom?"

"I don't know who generated the list. But I do know there were thirty-three people on it, and twelve of them had died or been killed under circumstances that weren't exactly natural."

She sat up, her face stony. "Was my mom on that list?"

He stayed on his side, put his hand over her knotted fingers. "No, at least not that I saw. But this list was made after she'd been killed. So... maybe it's because you'd worked in vice and helped out in narcotics. Maybe it's because you had questions. Maybe it's because you speak Russian – there were a few Russian names on the list. I don't know, but..."

He sighed and rolled onto his back again, left forearm over his eyes, right hand still holding hers.

"Kate, when you arrested me, I didn't realize at first that you were the same Kate Beckett, but it rang a bell. I thought it was just because perhaps I sort of recognized you from a book signing, but I thought you were... just..."

"A cold-hearted bitch?"

"Never! Breathtaking, if a little icy. I wracked my brain. It took me days to figure out why your name was bothering me."

"You Goggled me to figure it out."

He sighed. "Something like that."

She picked up a small, satin pillow and smacked him with it, not hard. _Fwap._

"Oh, come on!" he said. "You totally had the advantage over me. My police record, my books, Page Frackin' Six, my online presence... all I had was Kickass Kate Beckett. Whom I really, really liked from Day One."

"So when you did your little Vulcan Mind-Reading Trick...?" Her eyes flashed. He really had hit a sore spot, and it would always be vulnerable. _Fwap._

"I didn't know yet, I swear."

She hit him with the pillow again, not too hard.

"Doing a cold read." _Fwap._

"I was just intrigued. It really was just a guess. Based on what I could see..." _Fwap_. "...of you."

"When did you make the connection?"

"When I talked to Bob Weldon about following you on an open-ended basis. He confirmed my educated guess that you came from old money, but that you hadn't used that influence to rise up in the Force."

Kate snorted. "Old money."

"Houghton? Goes back to Norman French, by way of England. In another time, you would have been engaged to the Sherriff of Nottingham."

"And you would have been Robin Hood," she laughed. "I can just picture you walking into a dinner party with a deer carcass slung across your shoulders. In tights."

"Why would a deer wear tights?"

"Stop it." she rolled her eyes. "My dad was something of a black sheep," Kate grinned. "His mater and pater did not approve of that _'uppity little wop paralegal from Brooklyn'_. Never mind my mom was half Serbian-American. Anyone originating from further south than Paris? His family was Not That Sort Of People."

Castle winced. "Yuck. They missed out. Anyway it was pretty simple to run a basic check on you, just get your departmental file. I kept out of your personal stuff because I hoped that sooner or later, if I was very lucky, you and I would..." he pulled her hand over to kiss it "...be in a position something like this."

"And?"

"And I figured that, if I snooped out of bounds, or lied too big, you'd see right through me."

"Were you right?"

"You certainly were intent on making me keep my distance. And I plan to enjoy watching your mysteries unfold forev– for as long as you'll let me."

"You're not hiding anything else?"

"No, Kate. I'm physically healthy, financially solvent, and I'm not allergic to anything except ragweed." He blinked. "And dust mites. I'm afraid of tsunamis and ghosts, although I've never seen either one in person. I have a slightly obsessive nature, and I enjoy playing with fireworks on the beach, which is mostly illegal." He sat up. "But I am so. Very. Talked. Out."

"You? I didn't know it was pos- Mmmf!"

He leaned over kissed her, interrupting her abruptly enough for their teeth to clash slightly. "Ow." They both chuckled.

She said, "Easy, Big Boy, we've got all ni-mmmmm"

He kissed her again. "And all morning?"

"Let's see how it goes," she twinkled at him. "I'm open to it." She swung a lithe leg over him and sat up in his lap, which was almost exactly where he wanted her, only without all the pants.

"Open?" He slipped his hands down the collar of her robe, sliding them along down her belly, and the soft half-knot in her robe's sash gave way to taut, warm skin and the lavender lace underwear. He groaned, "God, you're beautiful." He sat up with her weight on his thighs, bowing his forehead to press against hers.

She stopped him with gentle hands cupping his jaws. "Rick. So are you. Inside and out. Even with all the spying and the snooping and the touching things."

"There's so much I want to know."

She nodded. "We have time."

•••

* * *

 _A/N  
I know this was supposed to be a humorous story but dammit, it has its own agenda. There will still be funny bits. And steamy bits. And you can count on pancakes. I hope you're enjoying the ride. Or, at the very least, that you'll forgive me. :-D_


	17. HBSB ch 17: Going for Brioche

**CHAPTER 17**

 **Going For Brioche**

 _Editing love scenes (mostly paring it down to R rating from X) is  
SO.  
VERY.  
HARD. _

_In working on Chapter 17 I found he pulls her panties down three times but... how they got back on, I can't explain. EDIT EDIT EDIT. :-D_

* * *

Then they were kissing, their bodies a symphony of hard and soft touches. She moved her knees from kneeling to wrap her ankles tightly around his hips, both of them silently begging for contact and friction, pressure and, oh, penetration would feel _so_ very good. Her face went a little blank for a moment. "I, uh, did you bring any protection?"

"No. I kind of ran out the door."

"What, Richard Castle Famous Playboy Writerboy didn't just assume he'd get lucky?"

"I didn't want to push it. It's the Houghton Rejection syndrome."

"Houghton...?"

"First the publishers, then eighteen months of _will-she-kiss-me-or-shoot-me_. It's painful. I'm amazed my ears are still attached to my skull."

"Let me check," she whispered. She leaned around to nibble one earlobe until he squirmed, then repeated the nibble on the other side, and he gasped at the sensation and the warm breath in his ear. "Everything seems to be almost in place," she purred, and ground against his lap.

He grunted, "Exactly the right... oh. That's, unh, so good."

Then she stilled and pulled away, but even though her words were regretful, her expression was full of naughty intentions. "I shouldn't tease you. I don't have any condoms, either."

"I-uh-" he pointed to the door. "store?" The works weren't wording too goodly, because she had pushed him down onto his back again, and was kissing down his chest, licking his flat, tan nipples, running her short, unpolished but well-groomed nails down his ribs and belly and the insides of his arms, and ohgod, he was afraid he was gonna burst something. Or many things, starting with the zipper on his linen trousers, which he might have to get dry-cleaned before he hit the road at the rate things were going, which was _oh so fast do that again now slower, mmm yes..._

When thoughts and feelings get blurry, sometimes a run-on sentence can say so much. Short sentences are great, too, though, and she used a whopper.

"No. We are not leaving this apartment again tonight."

But her tongue was saying yes to something, that's for sure. She was licking down his belly again, her hands exploring his arousal, palming him through the light, smooth linen of his slacks, shifting his package around like a UPS driver planning to make a very special delivery.

"Whatever you say?" he squeaked, and sat up on his elbows, which made his abs contract in a way that had brought... well, there she was, unfastening his belt. No need to whip out the cliches.

"Time to come off," she told his pants, and his hands said, _"Good idea, we'll just help you out with that."_ His mouth couldn't say anything except, "Aah!"

He raised his hips up, and she drrraaaaagged those linen trousers down and off, tossing them onto the side chair.

"No store?" he gasped.

"Nope." She was playing with him through the silk of his boxers. That brioche-rolling lesson was really paying off.

He collapsed onto his back again. "...but... Ohjeeziz H cChrist On A Cracker don't ever stop... what the hell are you doi-nnghghhhh?"

"I read about it online. _Pinch-and-roll_ technique."*

"But that's... I will hunt that traitorous man down and take away his keybohhhrrd..." he thrust into her hand and thrashed wildly against the silk. "We don't tell women about that."

"Why not?" Her gaze was wicked with triumph, knowing he was wholly at the mercy of her delicate touch.

"Because it's, uh, ohgod, because then you'll _know_ , and you'll have our souls by the balls forev-ohgod, do it again."

"So this is what you do when you have an itch you can't..."

* * *

* _(A/N I literally just learned this was a technique men use to discreetly scratch their junk, but it can have overstimulating side effects if used injudiciously. I won't detail any personal research results, but I will say this: Beckett tested, Castle approved)_

* * *

He groaned, "Ohhh, Beckett. You are evil."

"You don't know the half of it," she giggled.

"Well, that half is a really good staaahhhhhhooh. Wow. Slow down. I don't want to lose it..."

"Yes, you do..."

"Stop! Stopstopstop!" He sat up and grabbed her hands, laughing.

She pouted, wiggling her hands in his grip. "Let go. I'm hungry and I need a snack."

"Oh, you wicked woman," he smirked. "But you've got a fridge full of parsnips."

"You peeked? Into my crisper drawer? That's so... intimate." She snickered. "Kitchen's too far, and that won't satisfy my culinary requirements."

He pulled her up by her hands to align their bodies, and they kissed a while longer, the heat building between them again. She said innocently, "Aren't you gonna wish me... bon appétit?"

"The pleasure is all mine, isn't it?"

"Oh, no it isn't. Not if I'm doing it right." The boxers whipped off like the cover of a Ferrari at a car show.

She stared down at him, admiring the view. Her expression alone was scorching, and the long strokes of her fingers up and down his body... he was already panting and she hadn't even _directly_ touched his skin where he most wanted her to. She pushed his legs a little apart and crouched between his knees.

"You're sure you don't wanna lose control, Rick?"

"Yes. I do. Just not yet!"

She nodded. "I'll pace myself between courses."

"How many courses are you planning?"

"Oh, you know. Four or five."

He lay back with a happy whimper, and soon his eyes were rolling back in their sockets, his whole body tight and thrumming and hard. He wasn't willing to cede control, at least not so soon, not when they'd waited so long and would be waiting even longer. She'd barely even started to really enjoy her appetizer when he had to stay her. He reached down, clasped his arms around her torso, and hauled her up so that they were chest to chest, the lace of her bra stimulating both of them, her soft thigh grinding against his pelvis, driving him too fast, too close to a peak even after two intense releases earlier that day.

He flipped her onto her back, just like that, and his member surfed very-close-to-the-target along the inside of her thigh, crested onto her hip bone, then back down her leg again, with his ribcage gently weighting her hips now, and his mouth working on those sweet little breasts as they peeked out above the lace, eager for the swirl of tongue and the gentlest scrape of tooth. She stroked his hair, then reached down to knead the solid, ropey muscles of his neck and shoulders and upper arms. He rose back up over her again, kissing her facial features, nibbling her earlobes, sucking deeply at her throat, and she cried out.

She writhed and twisted beneath him, so responsive, her legs opening wide to wrap around his hips, and damn that underwear, bless that underwear, that diaphanous lavender parry that kept his thrust at bay.

He pulled the bra straps down off her shoulders, exposing those collarbones and the delicate insertion of muscle and tendon beneath them, stroking those tasty mauve nipples through the lace with an ingenious and varied touch, fast and slow, pinching and stroking, alternating and in opposition and in tandem. And all the time, the weight of his body pressed into her core, heavy but with little friction, other than what her own motion provided. He was holding back on her, knowing she wanted more, teasing her. Her back arched and she pulled him harder and tighter and closer with her long, strong legs, both of them going insane with desire and utterly sane with their care for one another. The tension between animal lust and the long view of what they really wanted? Exquisite.

"So _tall_ ," he mumbled. This was an understatement. She was taller than many of the women he'd been with, and stronger than all of them save Sofia. Their bodies just _matched up._ It was almost eerie. Maybe it was because she did some yoga – not every day, but she was careful to stretch out.

She grimaced. "I want it off." She tried to reach back behind herself but he shook his head, pulled her to sit upright on his thighs as he knelt, and he unfastened the bra from her back as she grasped his broad shoulders for stability, and his bare manhood rubbed against those panties and her belly again as she rocked and shimmied against his length, and he could feel her arousal through that translucent triangle of fabric.

The bra now gone, he was free to play with her as he might. Now she was up on her hands and knees, and she pushed him back down onto the bed. He gazed up at her as soft tendrils of her chestnut hair brushed over his face. Now the only thing keeping their bodies unjoine was a total of 8 square inches of fragile silken lace, and the will to hold back as long as they could bear it.

He said, "In the interest of full disclosure, I've been tested since the last time I was with Gina. Everything's clean."

"Why?" she murmured.

"I wanted to make a new start. I've known it was over for a long time."

"No vascectomy?"

"No. Gina tried to talk me into it but... it seemed premature."

She nodded. "After Demming I dated a guy. A couple of times. We didn't sleep together."

"Was he a complete idiot?"

She chuckled. "He was a cardiologist. He'd been doing volunteer work at hospitals all over the world, rushing in to help disaster victims. A great guy. Also smoking hot. Rode a motorcycle."

He pouted a little. "So why..."

"Good with repairing hearts. Not so good at winning them."

Rick smiled uncertainly, and they rolled to lie on their sides, their faces close, their bodies closer.

"I kept putting him off." At the quirk of Castle's brow, she breathed, "Because every time I closed my eyes, I could only see you."

He beamed with joy at the knowledge, and kissed her nose, because it was there.

"And there was no point wasting my time, no point in using him. So yeah, I got tested after Demming, when I gave blood in July. So I'm good. Healthy."

"You are," he mused. "You are _so_ good." He reached around to grab her ass. "...And If I fucked your brains out right now..."

"In a few weeks I'd be peeing on a little white stick and crying my eyes out."

He nodded. "Small they are, but mighty, the little french clowns of the Nash Metropolitan."

She spluttered. "WHAT?"

"Inside joke. Between me and the tiny guys with the bald caps."

She sat up on her heels. "Castle," she said, with deep affection, "You know, you're just a little bit odd sometimes."

He sighed, wistfully, looking up at her. "I know. Blessing and curse." Then he closed his eyes, and she saw that hint of sadness again. "Beckett... Kate. I get to say 'Kate' now, right?"

"If you like," she said softly. "As long as we're away from the precinct."

"Fair enough." He took both her hands into his. "Do a lot of people... I don't know how to say this, but do people seem to really _get_ you?"

" _Get_ me? Like my sense of humor?"

"Not just that, your... sensibility. I don't know. Frame of reference?"

"You mean I'm a fish out of water."

"A little bit."

"No, not a lot of people. Most of the things I think about never cross my lips... speaking of crossing my lips..." She bent to kiss him tenderly. "You okay?"

"Aside from talking enough to take up twenty minutes of a Woody Allen movie, yes. Mostly. I just... I say a lot of things that come to mind. I have a lot of mind. It gets busy in here, and you might think I don't have a filter but..."

"Well, I did just find out you were an international spy, so yes, you contain multitudes."

"I do, Kate," he persisted. "I do have a filter. There's so much I don't get to say. You may make fun of me when I run off at the mouth, but … you listen. And when you let yourself just go with it, you rise to it, you care enough to try to make me laugh, it's... _so_ precious to me. It's like having been a fish in a slowly drying mud puddle all my life, being lifted up by a sandstorm and dumped into the Great Barrier Reef, and meeting a mermaid."

She shook her head, her smile gentle. "That's really sweet. And a little weird."

"But not creepy-weird?"

"No, Castle. It's just you. You've more than grown on me. You've grown _into_ me. This summer... it was the worst since the year my mom died. After you left I just realized how … bleak things can be without you. I mean, my life isn't totally miserable. Every day has its gifts..."

"And I'm the cheerful, attractive, yet ultimately disposable wrapping?"

"Not in any way disposable," she frowned a little. How could he even think that? Maybe because she'd pushed him away, over and over and over? What an idiot she'd been. She gave him a gentle, deep kiss, then placed her forehead against his. "The wrapping is only part of it. My time with you is just... a better present." She relaxed down, aligning her body with his. He rolled onto his back, her body draped half across him, stroking his face with gentle fingers.

He blinked slowly. "Hard to understand how I can be so sleepy and so horny at the same time."

She grinned. "Probably the diverted blood flow from your brain." She bent her knee so that his softening length was gently trapped in the crook of it, and gave him a long, slow stroke that had him hard again in moments.

He kissed her face then, eyes, cheeks, temples, jaw, and once again his hands caressed up and down her body, and hers on his, a magical, healing thing. He finally, finally slipped a hand inside her panties and felt her thrusting slowly against his fingertips, her whole body shuddering, again with a slow build and no resolution. He stopped, kissed her, and rolled off the bed.

She growled. "Cassstlllle."

"I'll be right back," he said, got up, and headed to the bedroom door.

"Where are you going?"

"Be right back," he repeated.

He went to the living room and found the bottle of massage oil that he'd left in the shadow of the wine. He came back with the little bottle, and a couple of large towels, and started to lay them out on the comforter.

"What is that?"

"Charlie's Elixir of Love," he grinned, brushing red rose petals off the bed. Kate just lay there watching him as he worked. He wasn't shy about his body, and he was strong, with long, powerful limbs and smooth skin. Men tend to ook a bit silly naked, when they're posing or doing the Chippendales stripper moves. But a nude man with a job to do... especially when that job is laying out towels in candlelight with the intention of rubbing you all over with sweet almond oil... there is nothing more attractive in the known universe. If you are a man, I hope you will take note of this.

"Would you like to lie down?" He gestured to the towels. "I hear I give a great massage."

Kate didn't have to be asked twice. She lay stretched out, kitty-corner on the bed, with the towels protecting her bed linens. There were still occasional rose petals they hadn't knocked off yet, and Rick peeled one off her hip and feathered it down her flank. She could barely feel it, the touch light and skipping. He took the plastic squeeze bottle and poured some oil into his palms to warm. "Lie on your stomach," he said. "I'll start with your back."

She obeyed, and he started at her neck and shoulders. She moaned as he worked the knotted muscles, and he said, "What are you keeping under your skin, a load of gravel?" Those mighty thumbs worked between her shoulder blades and hit that one spot that causes misery to anyone who uses a mouse or trackball.

She hissed, "Oh, that hurts, but don't stop. Go deeper."

"As you wish," he whispered, and kissed her shoulder blades, kissed along what seemed like every vertebra. As he went lower down toward her rump, he saw her back arch, and her breath caught. He laughed and tickled, and her hips bucked. "Works on you, too."

"Yeah," she said with a mock scowl and a bossy tone. "Now go back to my shoulders."

He said, "Mind if I straddle you?"

"No. Just... remember I'm not on the pill or anything. Behave yourself."

"I'll keep it safe."

"Promise."

"I'll be a complete gentleman." He sat on the backs of her upper thighs, although his own knees took most of his weight, and started in on her back again, then her shoulders and upper arms. It was a challenge to keep the action relatively chaste, with all that delicious temptation stretched beneath him.

"If you're a _complete_ gentleman, I'll be sort of crushed."

"I'll try to keep it light," he chuckled. She felt some cool oil dripping onto her back, and shivered, then his warm hands stroked and kneaded down her spine, making circles on her lower back and the chronically tight muscles above her hips. She could feel the strength of his thighs embracing her own, feel his manhood resting – but not rubbing – on the crack of her ass, atop her panties. It was tantalizing, sexy in a slow and cozy way. Her body felt utterly alive, and yet relaxed at the same time. He slowly worked his way backward down her frame, rubbing her glutes and hamstrings, all those sore, complicated muscles that keep humanity upright, some of us in high heels on concrete.

Massaging Kate was a privilege for him, a sensual feast for a man who understood emotional starvation. He rumbled in the back of his throat at the way the light shifted across the roundness, shimmered on her oiled skin. Kate's bottom was smooth, muscular, and pert, her legs together but not quite touching. His hands did a long, smooth stroke down the back of each leg, searching for any tightness, and she hummed with pleasure, and he felt the thrill not only of touching her but of knowing that she loved it, loved him, wanted more. Then he was standing at the lower corner of the bed, looking at her from head to toe, overwhelmed by her beauty and the mere fact that they were both in the same room together, let alone touching. He wondered if he would ever get over the loss he'd felt so acutely when they were apart.

And then he cradled her long, slim right foot between his hands and laughed softly.

She said, "What's so funny?

His knuckles bore into her arch, which was tattooed with a grouping of five tiny black diamonds. "This."

"You found it!" she said.

"Your tattoo? Yes. Not what I'd expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I dunno. A little unicorn, recording forever a moment of legal-age, booze-fueled impulse. Or something literary."

"What do you think?"

"Well, it must have hurt like hell, inside your arch like that."

"That it did."

He kissed the tattoo and sang softly, _"She's a rich girl, don't try to hide it, diamonds on the soles of her shoes..."_

"I was working vice," she said to her pillow. "Young enough I still looked like a college girl."

"Last week, then. Out for a walk on the wild side?"

"There was rather a lot of walking," she grimaced.

There was a long silence (punctuated by the occasional unctuous moan) while he rubbed her oiled calf muscles, ankles and feet. One at a time, he bent each knee at a right angle, lifting her thigh up from the bed, swaying it gently to stretch the quadriceps and tendons at the front of her hips. He was able to lift her knees quite high. He rasped, "So, uh, I get this feeling you can do a backbend."

"Uh-huh," she grunted. "Why does that feel so good?"

"All of the stretching with none of the work," he chuckled.

She was thoughtful, even though blissed-out by the loosening of her muscles. "I really don't know how they do it. Streetwalkers."

Rick shook his head. "Makes me sick to think of it."

"You've really never, with all your money, been to a prostitute? Not even when you were lonely and on the road?"

He set her foot down gently. "Kate. Turn over. Look at me."

She expected him to say, _"Do I look like the kind of man who'd have to pay for sex?"_

That's not what he said.

His face looked craggy in the half-light, his gaze holding hers, the rest of her massage momentarily on hold. "My mom was single and broke through most of my childhood. I had behavior – or rather, misbehavior – that blew my chance at a lot of scholarships, no matter how smart I thought I was. My senior year of high school, I just gave up and home-schooled because I was so sick of... _high school_. I got myself a diploma through night classes at the junior college."

"Really!" She rose up on her elbows and bent one knee in a little, feeling oddly exposed, even though he was the one revealing himself, and at this moment only looking at her face.

He nodded. "My mom paid too much for those stupid private schools, but it gave me a somewhat safe place to lay my head when she got parts. There was no money for college, so I put myself through. I worked in cafes, bars, and nightclubs. I delivered pizza and flowers. I bagged groceries. I sold plasma a couple of times. I," he blushed here, 'I donated sperm once."

Kate said, "Wow."

"Yeah, it's actually weird, now. To think there might be a few little Castle babies floating around. Other than Alexis." His expression was a charming mixture of pride, chagrin, sheepishness, and something wistful.

Kate's mouth opened and closed.

He continued, "I had both men and women offer me money for sex. But for some reason I always had ketchup soup and a roof over my head, even if I had to sell everything but my typewriter and a sleeping bag. And I've also lived in some absolute dives, the kind of place where hookers just go ahead and service their johns in an alley, or a car, or maybe the elevator if they don't make it all the way back to their room." He started working on her feet again, massaging each toe in turn."That may be a fun fantasy. But the reality is nothing but sickness and shame. You know that from working vice. I know it because some of Mother's friends became call girls to make ends meet. Some of my friends, too." His eyes were sad. "Never me. I got lucky. But I was in no position to help anyone then."

"I'm sorry, Rick. I didn't mean to insult you. It's just the sort of thing one has to ask in this situation." She wiggled her knee with a hopeful smile.

"I know," he nodded. "We both have to act like adults here, and I have a certain man-child reputation."

"I've never quite understood why you'd cultivate that so diligently." She hissed sharply. "Oh, easy on that big toe joint. It gets really sore right th- Ow.

"Sorry." He backed off the pressure. "Better?"

"Yes. There. Gently, that's good."

He grinned. "The playboy thing. Yeah. It's been useful even if it occasionally undermines my self-respect." He ducked his head, the shadow of his hair hiding anything more than a blue glint, but his crooked smile was beautiful. "After my first million-seller, I did take nine hookers out for burgers once. We jumped in a couple of cabs and went to an all-night diner." He chuckled, full of mischief. "It was kind of snowing and their pimp was _such_ a sonofabitch. He was so mad when he couldn't find any of them!"

"Oh, wow, do that thing to my Achilles tendon again. _Ow_." Her leg and foot had contracted into a spasm.

"Take a drink of water." He got a glass for her and she took a few sips as she rotated her foot around. The clear glass reflected candleglow on her face and body, quivering as she drank, as if they were in an underwater grotto exploding with star trails. She sighed. "Thanks."

"Now lie back again and breathe into it."

He kept working on a knot in her calf muscle, and she moaned a little. "Oh, you are wonderful. The pimp - did he come after you?"

"He did. Came storming into the diner wearing this zebra-print fake fur parka and metallic gold pants. And I talked him into having the Full Moon in Manhattan Special. Once he realized I'd paid all his – 'girls' – he thought I was gonna be his best customer. I also poured half a hip-flask of good bourbon in his coffee when the waitress wasn't looking. For research purposes."

"You didn't shadow him, though." Kate smirked.

"Hell no. He was an utter rat-bastard. His name was Harold Johns..."

Kate snickered. "Johns?"

"Born to the job, right?...but he was an aspiring rapper. Went by HairDog Jay, and by the time 4 a.m. rolled around, he thought we were best friends."

"Were you?"

Rick shrugged. "Purely by coincidence, he was arrested at his home two days later."

"Really. Wow, oh. Right there."

"They got him for pandering, domestic abuse, human trafficking, false imprisonment, money laundering, possession of narcotics for sale, aggravated assault, and possession of contraband. I don't think anyone ever bailed him out." He was now massaging around her knees and lower thighs.

"Sounds like justice to me."

"I can't get the pancakes and bourbon back, though. Where's the justice in that?"

She stretched long, then wiggled her knees and arched an eyebrow at him as he worked up her thighs. "Panties off?" she said, her voice rather husky.

Their eyes locked. "As you wish," he murmured, and he slidly them slowlike the legs all long and down. "Brains... scrambling..." he grunted. Hadn't he just been staring at her charms, revealed earlier that afternoon, with her legs splayed around his shoulders? No matter. It's not the sort of thing one can take for granted.

He went back to massage, working her thigh muscles on the front, and the inside. She was still watching him, her eyes glinting from under her thick lashes, her mouth slightly open, a hitch in her breath as he made long, gentle, firm strokes up to her hips, his flattened hands grazing her sex, then forming a vee at her lower belly, then flaring up along her sharp hipbones. His hands lapped back down again, the thumbs bracketing soft curls. "Shrimp tortellini," he mumbled fondly.

She gasped, her eyes half closed, then licked her lips.

"Hold it right there."

He smiled. "All right."

With his hands stilled, applying pressure, she couldn't help but circle her hips against him. "I meannnn ohhhh. Stop."

He slid his hands away again, down her inner thighs, but it was obvious she missed his touch. He gave her a predatory leer.

She grinned and sat up in a half-lotus, and he couldn't help but glance down into the inviting shadows. "I love a mystery," he purred.

She said, "My turn."

He smirked. "Pancakes and bourbon?"

"Lie down. You gave me a back rub." She rose up on her knees, the candlelight licking down the curves and edges of her supple body. "So maybe I mean, _'your turn'_."

His Adams apple bobbed. "I wasn't quite done..."

"But you will be."

He lay prone. She dripped the cool oil on his skin, rather than warming it, and he twitched, chuckling low. She massaged his neck, his shoulders, his back, and good Lord, those arms! She gave extra attention to the tendons on the back of his forearms, his sturdy wrists and those large, smooth hands. She returned to his back and worked her way down along that amazing cleft between the muscles along his spine, that gorgeous, round ass, those pillar legs, and then she lay atop him, her whole body aligned with his, pressing his groin down into the mattress, and he let out a deep sigh, feeling grounded and joyful. She rested there a long moment, rocking very gently as if they were on a boat, then she stepped up the undulation and the friction, her breasts sliding against his shoulders and back. He felt her crotch pressing into his ass as she spread her legs wide in near splits, felt her kisses and little bites on the back of his neck, her nibbling and sucking and licking the shell of his ear. She murmured, with a hint of sarcasm, "Feeling relaxed, Castle?"

"No."

"Good. Turn over." She lifted her hips, up on all fours, and he flipped, staring up with hooded, indigo eyes. Tendrils of her hair draped over his face, and her hips hovered only a few inches over his. They were too close to taking it all the way home. He could feel the heat from her sex calling to him. She could feel her own pulse, and his, racing against the surface of her skin. He wanted, oh he wanted, and had she lowered herself down onto him, he would have gone all the way and damn the clowns.

She said, "Spread your legs." He obeyed her, looking down at their bodies, poised like … hell, similies failed him. _Poised_. One leg at a time, she moved between his thighs. She rose up on her knees a moment, and drizzled more oil on him. "I like this stuff. It smells like almonds."

His nostrils flared. "Much better than salad." He could smell flowers, and the sweet oil, the candle, balmy post-rain air coming in the window, and her. He stared at her face, but did not reach up to kiss her. Instead he let his gaze travel down, down, surveying the marvel that was Kate Beckett's body. Her hair was coiling against her shoulders, her chest muscles were flexing, her round breasts were swaying. He took in the slope of her belly, the mound of her sex, hovering. His member, which had waited so patiently, twitched of its own accord. He just kept staring, let his hands reach up to cup and stroke and caress those soft, sweet globes with their rosebud nipples, and he watched his own hands as he felt their weight and smoothness, watched her hips sway and twitch over him as she gasped her desire, then she arched her ass up and away from him, dragging those breasts down his chest and ribs and belly, further down, her breastbone pressing against his erection, in a long, slow, almond-scented, delectable slide.

"Bearclaw," he groaned, then had to explain on a sigh. "Sweet. Spice."

She grinned up at him. "Maybe for breakfast. Right now, let's go for brioche."

She slid her body up and down, over and around, taking her weight on her left hand and using her right to rub his inner thighs, to caress him and soothe him and tease him, his legs spread as wide as possible, then she slid right up again to kiss him and then she was undulating against him with her own ankles crossed, her thighs pressed tightly together. She moved from kissing him to sucking on his tongue, and that really did it for him. He growled deeply and went frantic, his legs wrapped around her ass, thrusting hard against her belly.  
 _  
_"You're like a mermaid," he gasped. They rolled, pleasantly wrestling, sliding, tumbling, exploring with hand and tongue, inner wrist and grasp of long, strong legs.

"You're my net." He was so big, and she was all wrapped up in him, safe and on the edge at the same time in his arms. She was _so strong,_ and he was stronger, and it was _so damn good._

"I'll catch you, and I'll keep you," he growled. Then, finally he slid his hand between them in earnest. She'd had her legs pressed together for the most part, the blood flow trapped and building. Now she parted for him with a moan, straddled one of his thighs, her fingers slithering and circling him he pushed up against her, the two of them riding one another hard. Now he could reach her throat and breasts with his mouth, and he was so close, so fucking close to fucking, fucking close. "Kate," he gritted, "I want, I want, God I love you."

" _Yeah!_ " was all she could manage, and "oh, ohgod, oh goddddd" escaped through her gritted teeth. Then she actually screamed, a rasping alto keening, a _"yes"_ and a " _NOW!"_ and a " _Push_ , _push me over!_ ", and she felt him, his whole body, grow hard and stiff as stone, not even breathing.

"Ah, Kate." It was all he said when he broke, pulsing against her upper torso. She was anointed with liquid more precious to her than pearls, and his thumb was diamond-hard against her, and his fingers curled inside her. She rubbed her slicked body against him and he moved his strong hand up and into her core, and she went off like a bomb, the whole bed shaking as they shuddered, then fluttered, then rocked, then went still, nestled and entwined and thoroughly spent.

•

* * *

 **End chapter 17**


	18. HBSB ch18: Pushing the Envelope

_Dear Readers:_

Here's a note from a guest:

 _From: Guest_

 ** _1._** "I don't believe for one second that Kate slept with Demming"

 **1.** CD:This different perspective is very interesting!

In the first case, I think Kate and Demming had great physical chemistry, they clearly got a bit turned on when sparring (or was it just me?). He's intelligent, he's handsome and very nice, he's a cop. If Castle were on another show with another muse I would totally have rooted for Beckett & Demming. Kate's a healthy, liberated, adult woman (formerly something of a wild child) and at the time she gets involved with Demming, she's in denial about her feels for Castle, isn't she? She's impulsive, she got involved with Demming in the first place. It seems like a natural progression of their attraction. Also, come to think of it, would you plan to go out of town for a weekend with a new lover when you weren't sure the sex would be fantastic? Awkwarrrd.

So does anyone other than this guest feel it's OOC for Kate to have sex with Demming after dating for a few weeks? Or maybe did they only go as far as Kate and Rick have?

Would Kate be willing to 'have sex' with Demming on a casual basis, but not feel comfortable actually falling asleep and waking up in the same bed? It's a question worth examining.

Please feel free to weigh in.

 _ **2.** I find it very hard to believe that Kate wouldn't be on some kind of birth control, that seemed pretty OOC to me._

 **2\. CD:** As for birth control, every body is different and no method is perfect. Some do great on the pill. I gained 20 lbs on depo-Provera. I had a friend get pregnant using an implant. Another who had a tilted uterus got perforated by a badly fitted IUD. Latex condoms can deteriorate with time or with poor storage (do not keep one in your wallet too long, the latex breaks down with body heat if it sits there for months). So, since Kate is not in a committed relationship and hasn't been for months if not years, and Castle's reappearance is a surprise, it is reasonable to me that she wouldn't have backup birth control in place or on hand.

Plus, the extended play was really fun. 17play. Maybe someday people will say, "Whew. That was a real 17." and nobody will know where the phrase came from.

Sort of like "Page 105" :-D

* * *

Also, dear Other Guest –  
 **G:** _Sorry but nobody could last through that, in a good way...  
-_ _CD: I am living proof that somebody could, and it was hella fun. Sometimes better than the usual in-n-out, which can be a bit prosaic._

 **G:** _T_ _hink she would of gave in! Can they have sex already jeez  
-_ _CD:_ all in good time. If you want a story where things happen fast and dirty, I'm sure there are PLENTY of choices out there! :-D

* * *

 **Chapter 18**

 **Pushing the Envelope**

Because of the heretofore unprecedented noises coming through both her floor and ceiling, three of the neighbors called Mr. Miro to check on Ms. Beckett around 11:45, because it sound like someone was either having a really good time or getting killed, and they weren't entirely sure which. Mr. Miro said he would check, but he didn't, because he'd read Castle's books – which had a high steam quotient. Mr. Miro knew all about Nikki Heat Page 105, and had a very good idea of what was going on between Kate and Castle, and felt it was long overdue. That was all for the best, because Rick and Kate wouldn't have noticed him knocking, now would they?

•••

A few minutes after Rick and Kate's climactic moment, she shivered at the contrast of his warmth and the cool air on her oiled posterior. She woke and stumbled to the bathroom to clean up a little, wetted a clean washcloth, and returned to her room. He barely woke and smiled a little as she gently wiped the now-sticky intimate residue from his skin. "Thanks," he mumbled, then reached for her hand and kissed the back. "Cold?"

She nodded. "Let's get into bed."

He rumbled pleasantly and rolled off the towels to sit up. "Oil on your sheets?"

"The towels caught most of it. Tomorrow's laundry day anyway."

"Mmm. Warm laundry."

She chuckled, pulled the towels off the comforter and dropped them on the floor, followed by the damp washcloth full of thwarted French clowns.

"Sad clowns," Rick mumbled.

She gave him a quizzical smile and patted his shoulder. "Right. Bedtime."

He yawned hugely (his jaw actually cracked a little) and took a sip of water. The candle was nearly out, guttering in a puddle of melted, aromatic wax. "Right back." He picked up the towels and shuffled, naked, off to the bathroom, dropping the towels off in her hamper since he'd brought them along for the ride. When he returned, he found Kate snuggled up in bed, lying on her side, facing the bedroom doorway.

Her eyes drifted open and his heart grew another size when he saw the sweet welcome of her smile. She murmured, "Spoon me?"

"You want me to stay." He still couldn't quite believe it.

"Mm-hmm. If you want to." She patted vaguely at what was apparently his side of the bed. "You do? Want to?"

He raised the covers to slide in between cool, smooth cotton sheets. He lay for a long moment, just watching the candlelight on her peaceful face. He kissed her gently. "Nothing would give me greater joy."

"Nothing?"

He blew out the candle, the room now lit only by ambient streetlight coming through her blinds.

"Well, not right now. Maybe in a few hours."

"I'll hold you to that." She turned over, and nested her bottom in his lap, smirking when he responded with a slow, gentle rocking of his body against hers.

His voice was warm and low, close to her ear. "I'll hold you to... _this_. Once it's recovered completely, sometime in October of 2017."

"Old man."

"Your old man," he whispered. "Always."

"Old is good."

He folded his right elbow under her head, and draped his left around her waist, the hand curled up to cuddle her breast. And they were out.

•••

People sleep differently. Some are hardwired morning people, some are die-hard night owls. If left to her own devices, Kate Beckett would fall asleep every night at 11 p.m., usually within five minutes after her head hit the pillow, and awaken on her own around 6:28 a.m., two minutes before her alarm was set to go off. Sometimes, of course, her sleep schedule was marred by stress that kept her awake, or late work hours, or the buzz of her phone when she was on call for body drops. On a Sunday morning off, Kate would normally indulge herself by not setting an alarm and hopping out of bed at 7:30, going through a few Sun Salutations, and finish her second cup of coffee over the New York Times crossword puzzle (in pencil) by sometime around nine.

Castle was a different creature entirely. He was slow to fall asleep, frequently running through stories or dialog, sometimes (when he was making smarter decisions) rolling out of bed to jot notes down before he'd even bother trying to sleep again. He sometimes wrote all night, and the jet-lag of travel tended to exacerbate his irregular sleep habits. When he did sleep, he awoke frequently from vivid dreams, but in the morning, barring the presence of either a child wanting attention or a lover wanting a different kind of attention, he was more than happy to phase in and out of a cozy dream-state for hours, eventually staggering out of bed sometime before 2 p.m., stiff and bearlike and forcing himself to hold a conversation. And once in a while, after a particularly long writing jag, he could easily sleep fourteen hours, especially now that Alexis was so independent.

As for his Sundays, they tended to be like any other day. He kept a stack of cut-out New York Times crossword puzzles in a drawer in his master bathroom, and he did them in pen, once he got around to doing them at all. Rarely did he have to scribble anything out. It was always the sports references that got him stuck.

•••

This was a morning to compromise.

•••

 **Kate's Bedroom, 5:03 a.m.**

Rick jerked awake from a particularly horrific dream - something about zombies at a book signing – a fan tearing her own arm off and handing it to him to write on with a Sharpie. He lay a moment on his side, blinking and disoriented, feeling sad because there had been another dream before that one, a dream about Kate Beckett, so vivid he couldn't believe it wasn't real, could almost smell her in the room with him. Candlelight and beauty and unrequited desire finally fulfilled. He tried to hold on, how he tried, that lingering vision, dream, memory, so beautiful, but she was back in Manhattan, and he was in an unfamiliar bed... where was he?

Then he remembered that he wasn't in a hotel room, then realized something warm and slightly damp was snuffling in the middle of his back. "Oh, my God," he murmured. He flashed back on Gina, how turned on he'd been taking a shower, and then Gina had walked in and... damn it, back to square one and he really did need to break it off for good... He huffed a sigh. There was a woman sound asleep at his back, the occasional almost snorelike breath, her nose buried between his shoulder blades, her arm now banded over his waist. Her long, slim arm, smelling faintly of sweet almond oil and cherries and ...

He rolled carefully onto his back, to find himself in Kate Beckett's bed, with Kate Beckett.

Kate. Beckett.

A sob of relief welled up in him.

He didn't say it aloud. _"So it wasn't a dream."_

Her arm was still across him, the fingers now curled gently near his hammering heart. Their day – their first day really _together_ \- came back to him now, image and action and smell and taste, oh, her taste, flooding into his memory. He lay with her head tucked into his armpit, her nose against his ribs, his hand on her shoulder, just feeling her breathe, feeling her alive, real and vulnerable next to him. Although she was sleeping through this moment, he would never forget it. After a while, he pulled away with great care, so as not to wake her, climbed out of bed and tucked her in, then crouched naked by the bed for a few moments, just studying her with his chin resting on crossed wrists on the edge of the mattress.

Kate. Beckett.

The love of his life, her outline barely limned by indirect streetlight glow, reflected through the blinds by the building across the way.

Kate. Fucking. Beckett.

In a bit of a daze, he wandered out into the living room, dug his travel pajamas out of his suitcase (they were comfy), and poured himself a half-glass of wine. As quietly as possible, he found her broom and went out into the hallway to sweep up his flower-petal mess before the neighbors woke up. Then he returned to her apartment, locked the door, took up his laptop again, and began to write, smiling to himself, his fingers fairly blurring over the keys.

She awoke at 7:28 to a divine smell. Coffee. Pancakes? Bangers sizzling in a pan and something else, something buttery and sweet... Mrs. Donleavy down the hall must be making Irish breakfast for her husband.

Kate put an arm out and realized she was alone, and then was hit with the hollow pain that she hadn't expected to be.

"Oh, no. Don't you dare..." she almost whimpered. "Don't be gone." She sat up like a rocket, then jumped out of bed and hurried out of her room, swinging into her robe on the way, forgetting she'd tossed his clothes onto the chair, sure that when she emerged he'd be long gone.

But no. His suitcase and shoes were by the door. His laptop was ensconced on the coffee table, there were still flower petals drifting around on the floor, and most gloriously of all, Richard Castle was in her kitchen, in his pajamas, apparently cooking them breakfast. He was dancing silently. Probably, by the hip motions, samba music. She could see the white wires from earbuds cascading down his shoulders. He had some very impressive moves. Also a very impressive, well, everything.

She knew there was absolutely no way she could make her presence known without startling him enough to cause a pancake-induced injury, so she simply checked into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, swiped a comb through her hair, and threw on a tee shirt and some shorts.

When she came back out, he was still dancing, but this time it was just something pretty basic in 4/4, but he was rolling his shoulders a little and she felt her knees going weak at the sight of him. She sat down at her sofa to watch the show. He took some milk out of the fridge and closed its door with his butt, poured a splash of milk into two mugs of coffee, then took off his headphones, all so absorbed in his task and the music, that he hadn't noticed her sitting on the couch.

Before he could pick up the coffee mugs and spill them all over himself, she said, "Good morning, Rick."

"JESUS FUH.." he stopped himself. "Hi! Beckett! Good morning! I uh..." he gestured toward the kitchen. "Hope you don't mind the, I, uh, is breakfast? Do you eat real food in the morning? On your days off? It's your day off. Right?"

"Yes." She gave him a long, slow smile, stood up, and stalked over to him. "It's been hours, simply hours, since I've eaten."

With a smile, he picked up a mug of coffee and handed it to her; she said, "Thanks," and set it down on the counter right where he'd found it. Then she stepped up to him, eyes locked on his, and came in close to band her arms around his waist.

"Good morning," she repeated. "Did you sleep well?"

He stopped a moment to just breathe, and the frenetic activity was stilled. His voice dropped about an octave. "For the most part. Waking up to find you tucked in with me was..." he wrapped his arms around her, his chin on his shoulder, and they swayed together gently like a forest of two trees. "I was afraid I'd been dreaming."

He felt her nod against his shoulder. "I know. When I woke up and you weren't there, I … let's just say tomorrow's gonna be tough."

"Yeah," he said softly. He kissed her cheek, which turned into more kisses, which turned into some heavy breathing, stroking, petting, from which Rick eventually disengaged, to Beckett's profound annoyance. "We need to eat actual food before this continues. Otherwise your friends will find our desiccated corpses in flagrante dilecto sometime in the first week of October."

Kate shook her head. "My mortgage is due on the 15th, so I'd say no later than the 21st."

"Oh, all right then. Still." He said, "I've got a zucchini-onion frittata keeping warm in the oven, and there are heart-shaped pancakes, and bangers, and just out of curiosity, did you eat all those pastries yesterday?"

"Oh. Uh, no..."

He cocked an eyebrow at her discomfiture. "And...?"

"About that..."

She went to her purse. "This kind of threw me."

"What?"

She pulled out the greasy little note in its ziploc evidence bag. "You wrote this yesterday?"

He peered at it. "Seems a little the worse for wear." He smiled, then frowned a little at her embarrassed expression. "What happened?"

"Would you mind reading it aloud?"

"Sure." He gave her a sunny smile that turned decidedly not-smiley as he stumbled over the words.

" _Blank_ is over un ex me is. I can't _blank_ it. Old _blank_. We _blank_ over _blank_ _blur_ in _blur_ or _blank_ no _blank..._ That seems kind of negative, doesn't it?

Kate nodded silently, biting her lip, and not in the sexy way.

"Holy crap, Beckett, I should never have used a gel pen!" He held it out to her. "Look at this smiley face, it looks possessed!"

"Yeah."

He pulled her into his arms. "I'm so sorry."

"I was so mad I threw all the pastries away in the trash." To his surprise, she was shaking a little. "You're not upset?"

"Why..."

"You keep a reserve of mac n' cheese for emergencies, and there I was throwing food away like a spoiled brat."

He shrugged a little. "Well, yeah. But who am I to judge? You should've seen me when I caught Meredith in bed with her director."

"What happened?"

"I dismantled the bed, carried the pieces down to the beach, and danced around the bonfire in a red Speedo."

"Remind me never to sleep with my director. So what did it actually say?"

He re-read the note silently and thought back. "Um, something like this." He slipped his index knuckle under her chin, raising her face so that she had to look into his eyes. "Hope this tides you over until the next time we kiss." His kiss was soft and slow. "I can't wait to hold you." His arms embraced her, snuggling her close. He murmured warmth into her ear: "We'll be lovers again before you know it." He sealed that promise with three kisses down the column of her throat.

"Really? That's what it said?"

"Really." He held up the paper. "And that was a smileyface. I swear. So, what did you think about this sad little scrap of misinformation?"

"At first glance, it was just... awful. I had to do a lot of soul searching. About your intentions. Because they looked like what I used to think they were."

"I can almost follow that."

"I'm not the writer in the room. Anyway I had this big debate about it and concluded that I really do believe in you. In us." She cupped her hands over his heart, a little protective dome.

His face shone like sunrise, and he leaned his forehead against hers. "Thank you."

"Also, Montgomery piped up about you having my back at the Farmer's Market. He may be a pain sometimes, but he's never steered me wrong."

Castle stiffened. "So he told you I got in touch."

"Yeah, and he was right to. Wouldn't want to have to explain everything to Internal Affairs without being prepared for it."

Rick grimaced. "I'll be out of town, but this morning when I woke up, I emailed you my report on everything that happened yesterday. You should definitely read it through before you send it to IA." He smirked and blushed at the same time. "All they need to see is the part titled 'Arrest at Farmer's Market'. Nothing else."

"I'll have to take a good look at it."

"Wait till after I leave town. I want to give you something to look forward to. Now let's eat, I'm starving."

They ate breakfast, and it was damn tasty. Then while Kate washed the dishes, Rick swept up the flower petals. Some still looked pretty nice, some were looking browned and bruised. He knocked them into the bucket that Kate used to bring her kitchen waste out to the building's curbside compost pickup. There were the pastries. He sighed discreetly when she wasn't looking, but he didn't give her a bad time about it. She could be impulsive. So could he. It was their choice whether it would bring out their best, or their worst.

As he made his way over to her door with the broom, he noticed something pink. He bent to pick it up, and Kate heard him gasp.

"Where did this come from?"

He was holding a pink, business-size #10 window envelope. Clearly printed on the front, the words "OVERDUE BILL. OPEN AT ONCE."

Kate dried her hands with a puzzled frown. "I don't..." her face went red with embarrassment. "I pay all my bills on their due date."

He showed her the name in the addressee window.

 _"Richard Castle_  
 _c/o Katherine Houghton Beckett"_

… and Kate's address.

He swallowed, his mouth dry, and took a sip of coffee. His hands were definitely shaking. He took a deep breath. "How long... was this here last night?"

"I don't know. It was buried in flowers, and the lights were low." She couldn't help smiling.

"Ever gotten anything like this before?"

"No. Look, you don't have to open this in front of me, it's probably personal."

"Not the way it's addressed." He paused, frowning down at it. Kate found him a letter opener from her desk. It was vintage art deco, silver with a mother-of-pearl handle, the letter H engraved into it. He looked at the letter opener with interest.

She said, "My great-grandmother's. On my dad's side."

"Nice." He slit the envelope open easily and pulled out a single sheet of white paper, with computer generated text and a clip-art logo. It looked for all the world like a bill, from:

 _Rita's Drapery Cleaners  
47 Xavier Corners  
New York, New York, 10022._

In the body of the invoice were these words, which he read aloud:

"Permission granted. Pertinent facts only as discussed. Destroy in usual manner upon receipt. Signal upon completion."

He chuckled a little. "Well, I already have."

"What?"

"Told you about LOKSAT."

"Right. So you told me without permission?"

He nodded. "So I thought. I guess... maybe someone was watching us yesterday. Decided it was time. Or inevitable. Or after the fact."

She grimaced a little. "I didn't notice anyone."

"They're that good. Stuff like this has happened before."

"When?"

He sighed. "The first time was ten years ago. Labor Day weekend, 2001. I got an envelope just like this. Of course I opened it, people always open Past Due notices. Do you have any masking tape?"

"Yeah." She pulled some out of a drawer and handed it to him. He headed to the windows, which were shuttered. She cried, "Wait, wait, not that window, open the one on the right."

He stopped, concerned at the urgency in her voice. "What is it?"

"What are you going to do with the tape?" she countered.

"It's an X-Files thing. It's what they told me to do the first time." He opened the window, reached awkwardly around the frame, and formed a sloppy capital Y with three pieces of tape.

"Very cloak and dagger," she scoffed. "Mulder, are you sure someone isn't pulling your leg?"

"I'm sure." His face was grave. He glanced at her shuttered window, but didn't pursue it at that time. "I'd already done some research through the CIA. Just following for the summer, gathering information for stories, no real intel. Alexis had spent the last two months of summer vacation with Meredith. I flew out to California to pick her up. When I opened my suitcase, I found a pink envelope, just like this. I knew I didn't pack it, but it was addressed to me. Mother was out of town at Wolf Trap and she'd received a similar envelope, slipped under her bedroom door in the middle of the night."

"What did they say?"

"It was a warning. No flying, no trains, and stay out of major cities until September 17. Terrorist chatter, high alert."

Kate sat down suddenly on the couch. "Where were you when the planes hit the tower?" It's a discussion every New Yorker has eventually, but who ever feels ready to talk about it? Because every new story is a fresh wound over scar tissue.

"Big Sur. At a cabin."

"Lucky you." She frowned. He noted that she was unaware of her own anger, simmering under the surface. A natural reaction; he'd seen it before. It often came out as sarcasm from people who had seen too much.

"It wasn't luck, I was warned."

"With a little pink envelope?"

"You know how it is, Beckett. I'm not a nut..."

She rolled her eyes. "Debatable."

"...but conspiracy theories fascinate me. If I'd found it slipped under my door at that time, I might have blown it off as a joke. But it was in my locked suitcase. So someone had the resources to get it in there undetected, without damaging my luggage or even getting it hung up in baggage claim. There was no delay."

Kate nodded. "That seems pretty... resourceful."

"Yeah. So I poked around a little online. I didn't find anything definitive, because there's always chatter out there and most of it doesn't come to pass. But it worried me enough to postpone traveling. Alexis was really upset because she was missing the first ten days of first grade, even though we had Breakfast with Mickey and Minnie."

"Which school?"

"Springboard Learning Academy." He hung his head a little. "Stupid name."

"Was it destroyed?"

"Coated in ash with the children and staff still inside. They had to shelter in place. It was such a shock that half of the children ended up going to different schools. Three of the kids died of leukemia before they turned ten."

Kate winced. "And Martha?"

"She had an extended run. She'd thought of returning to town to meet up with us when I brought Alexis back, but it just didn't feel right. So I postponed, and we're all... fine. But I lost friends."

Kate nodded. "Me too."

"And I felt so..." He huffed a breath, looking down at hands that flexed with impotent anger. "Cowardly. Like I should have been there, shouldn't have been afraid to cry wolf, should have warned someone... And so glad Alexis..." he swallowed, and shrugged.

Kate said, "There would have been regrets, no matter what you did. Or didn't do."

"I'm grateful and ashamed and angry, but I take those pink envelopes seriously when they show up. Yours is the best news they've ever brought me." He said dryly, "I don't know whom to thank."

Kate nodded, her face pale.

He took her hand. "And you?"

"I was still at NYU working on my criminal justice BA. It was before my dad... before he lost the apartment. I lived in student housing. Twenty-seventh floor, facing north. Getting ready for a 9:30 a.m. class." She shook her head, her eyes far away. "I got out of the shower and heard screaming in the hallway. I thought it was no big deal. Sometimes people are rowdy."

"But not usually on a Tuesday morning."

"No. Then someone knocked on my door, said two planes had hit the WTC, that we should get out. One plane, that's an accident. Two planes meant terrorists. My roommate had left for class at 7:45, so I was alone, along with hundreds of other panicked college students, some of whom were hungover or hysterical or barely dressed. I was halfway down the hall when I realized I had to go back for my shoes. I looked out the window and this cloud of ash started to float by..."

"Stairs or elevator?"

"Stairs. No way I was getting on an elevator, if the power went out..." she shuddered, her stomach clenching around a breakfast that suddenly felt too big. "I tried to find my dad. It took hours. He was watching TV in a bar near his office, drunk off his ass at 2 p.m."

"The bar stayed open?"

She smiled ruefully. "That bar was _packed_."

Rick nodded. "That makes a weird kind of sense."

"Yeah. Booze, TV, and tragedy," she sighed. "I had a beer. My mouth was so dry, and I couldn't stop shaking... it took me a while to realize he was so drunk he hadn't bothered to come looking for me."

"God, Kate." He wanted to hold her, but the tension in her body left her looking as if she'd shrug it off.

Her hands were on her thighs, the fingertips digging into muscle. "I wasn't even at the Academy yet. I couldn't do _anything_ , Castle. I hate not being able to do anything."

He smiled softly. "Did you ever read that MisterRogers quote?"

 _"'Look for the helpers'_? Yeah." She chuckled wryly, then coughed a little, the memory of ash in her throat. "It was plastered all over for a while. Bulletin boards. Memorials. The internet."

"Well, that's what you became, Kate. When you were ready."

"I work homicide, Castle. All my helping is done after the fact."

"No. You're thorough. You've prevented murders, too. The solve rate isn't just about justice for the dead."

She twisted around to lie down with her head in his lap, her feet up on the sofa arm. "You help me."

"I do?" He looked too surprised, still too happy to hear it after all he'd done for her.

She took his hand and kissed the knuckles, then held his fist against her heart. "You help me with cases. You bring me food when I'm empty and watch my back when I'm in danger. You saved me when my home got blown up, you took me in when I had no home. I am such a..." she tried to press the tears back into her eyes. "How could I treat you like that? How could I allow you to think I don't love you? What's _wrong_ with me?"

He stroked her hair. Sometimes it's wise to let a question remain rhetorical, even when it isn't. "Sooner or later, truth always comes to light, if we keep looking." His smile was shaky. "The worst part of last spring was seeing the truth. Every instinct screaming that you really had come to care about me. And you just wouldn't admit it. When I saw you with Demming, I felt like such a fool. Everything I knew about myself, and you, turned upside down."

She nodded. "You're not a fool. I was a selfish coward. You have every right to be angry."

"I guess I did. And I was." He stroked a stray lock off her forehead. "It all dissolved away when you turned around and smiled at me yesterday morning. You were too surprised to hide it." He bent nearly double (which wasn't easy) and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Yesterday made it all worthwhile again."

"What about today?"

"It's ahead of us. Right where it should be." He kissed her nose, and his neck popped a little. "Now. Up." He flexed his leg, she sat up, and he stood. He picked up the pink envelope and bill, and found a matchbook in a kitchen drawer.

"You went through my drawers," Kate grinned, mock-indignant.

He leered at her. "Yes, and I fully intend to do it again." He hooked a finger in the waistband of her yoga pants and snapped the elastic lightly against her skin. Then he held the message and envelope over the sink and set fire to them, narrowly avoiding scorching his finger. When they'd burned to black shreds, he ran ashy water through the garbage disposal. "Not a trace."

"You should consider using tongs next time." Kate frowned a little. "You know, my building super said he let someone in last night. To put an envelope under my door."

Rick froze. "Did you get a description?"

"Yeah. Older guy. Tall. At first I thought he was describing you, then he said the man had white hair."

"I can't believe it. After all this time, he shows his face?"

"Who is he?"

Rick shook his head. "I don't know for sure. But... the same person, or people, left that envelope for Mother, too, Back in 2001. It was a warning. Maybe it saved her life."

Kate's eyes went wide. "Your dad, maybe?"

"Who knows. Maybe. I'm almost tempted to get a composite sketch."

"And you checked out Rita's Drapery Cleaning." This wasn't really a question, because he was Richard Castle, and he never lacked for curiosity.

"Doesn't exist. Neither does the address. Phone number's fake, too."

"Think it's a clue of some kind?"

"No. I think it's just to make a casual observer overlook the content on a first-glance basis. It's not like there's a SuperSpy letterhead floating around."

"True."

Rick watched her face. She seemed to be having some kind of internal debate. Finally she looked him directly in the eye. "So, we both have our mysteries to solve."

He stepped toward her and slipped large, warm hands around her waist. "At least we've solved one." They kissed, just the gentlest brush of lips. He thought, _"Wait for it."_

She pulled away then, her eyes bright. "About Window Number Two over there..."

"Ah, the Shutter of Mystery. If I choose correctly, will I win a time machine? A trip to Uqbar? Or a goat?"

"No prizes," Kate said. "At least, not yet." She led him by the hand to the window, then swung the shutter open. Indirect sun made it tough, for a moment, to discern what he was seeing, but the general outline was familiar.

"A murder board." He squinted, wishing he'd put his contacts in when he got up.

"My mother's."

They stared at it, as if by their sheer combined will, it would divulge its secrets.

He squeezed her hand. "When did you put it up?"

"June. I got some stuff out of storage, I'd broken up with Demming, you were gone... I needed..." she shrugged, and her voice trailed away. "It helped. At the time."

"Things must have felt pretty bleak."

She nodded.

He kissed her temple. "What do you need to do?"

She laced her arms around his waist. "If this Loksat thing is part of my mother's story... and it's also part of yours?"

"Then she's dead, and it might involve the CIA, and we need to be very careful about the avenues we pursue."

"Yeah."

"But we've already been seen together."

"At least together enough for them to conclude that we are. Together. So our ship has sailed. Is sailing."

"True." He smiled. "You know what I think?"

"No, but that won't prevent your telling me." She gave him a sexy little grin, trapping the tip of her tongue between her teeth.

"I think it's the universe telling us something."

"Which is?"

"Someone's looking out for us. And when the time's right, we'll know. We'll look for the helpers together. All right?"

"Together."

He went closer to the window and surveyed Johanna's murder board carefully, committing each piece to memory. "No surprises, but perhaps something will fall into place with more context. Shall we give it a rest for now?"

She nodded, and pulled a box out, hidden in the shadows of her desk. "Just for now. A break." They took the pieces off the window, carefully removing the tape, and Kate put them to bed, one by one.

Outdoors on the sidewalk, three stories below, the drunk man from last night's pub conversation strode past Kate Beckett's apartment and glanced up quickly, noticing not only the capital Y in masking tape, but also Richard Castle peeling some little bits of paper from her window.

The passerby was on a burner phone. And he was absolutely sober.

"Yeah, message confirmed delivered. Looks like he stayed the night. Did you want her place bugged?"

The voice on the other end of the line said, "No. She's at a dead end for now. Leave them in peace."

•••  
 **END CHAPTER 18**


	19. HBSB ch19: What Happens In Thailand

_•••Dear Readers: I deeply apologize about this story, which has been problematic from last August. We've argued. We've cajoled and begged and threatened. I've tried bribing this chapter with chocolate and flowers. We've kept each other up all night. It's very humbling when I think I know where something is going (comedy romance) and it says "Nuh-uh, I'm turning into a dark spy thriller" - for which I am woefully and utterly under-researched and under-motivated. I don't even LIKE spy stories very much._

 _"Mr. Castle. Put the taro root down and back away slowly."_

I was also hampered by such things as having family home during numerous school breaks and work stoppages. But I have decided that since this started out comedic, or at least reasonably amusing, in all fairness it should stay that way.

 _In that light, I am calling this chapter:_

 ** _What Happens in Thailand Stays In Thailand_**

* * *

 **P.S. I should mention this review, from a guest:  
Yeah we all know how good it is to tease, pretty sure we have all done it besides the real thing! But Jesus we are 18 ch in come on already**

CharacterDriven: Oh, okay, Guest, you have convinced me. Here it is, just for you!

 _"Rick put his peepee in Kate's hoo-haw and they boinked the night away with many lusty thrusty motions until the lady said BAM! HURRAY!" Followed by many cuddles and I love you forever and their eyelashes tangled with each other's tongues. "I love you!" she said, exclaiming loudly. Castle cried out in extasy, "I love you too, yippee!" said Rick._

Is that better? No? Now go write something of your own, you courageous soul, you! _Because you can't do worse than what I just threw out there._ And like I said, you really don't have to read this. There are some very high quality prawns out there on the jumbo shrimp shelf.

 _:-D Best regards,_

 _CharacterDriven_

* * *

*ahem* Where was I?

* * *

 ** _What Happens in Thailand Stays In Thailand_**

 _(Now With Cats!)_

* * *

 **Wednesday, June 15, 93478 P.H.A. (Post-Human Era)**

The KiiikiTiitiki University Archaeological Team had discovered an interesting find in an ancient creekbed. It was the remains of a small human town, inundated under multiple layers of alluvial silt, then submerged several times by the old Pacific ocean as it rose and receded, then finally heaved up by repeated upthrusts along the San Andreas Fault. The town had been excavated to reveal a diner (with evidence of repeated carnage against The Ancestors), bookstore, gas station, motel, a few outlining houses, a Quanset hut theater, and several other small businesses. About 3/4 mile west of the town was a widening in the former canyon, and there the silt had spread out in much finer layers. Eventually the cockroach archaeologists (had I mentioned they were cockroaches, sentient and 4' tall when standing on their rear legs?) (Yeah, I know, creepy, but considering we humans are soft and squishy with our skeletons on the inside - which is the more practical design for a nuclear apocalypse?) ... the cockroach archaeologists and their grad students hit paydirt (ha! you know roaches love puns, those scrappy bastards) in the form of a beaver dam. They found the skeletons of several generations of beavers, and something they had never seen before: one of the beavers was wearing a blonde plastic wig. At least it seemed that way. Everyone knows that plastic is forever, and there it was, draped over the beaver's fossilized bones, its golden strands revealed one-by-one under the patient ministrations of the digging team.

* * *

 **Monday, September 6, 2010 (Labor Day)**

I could tell you all about Kate dropping Rick off at the airport the following morning with a minimum of tears and some tentative plans, but it was just soft and sweet and hopeful and sad, and then he was gone.

If you want an idea about sexting without sex, you could read "Castle in the Sand" if you haven't already. Go on. I'll wait. You could read "The Carousel" too. It's slightly AU to this tale, but such is the nature of plot bunnies.  
 _  
_As for the intervening time between Castle's flight up to their eventual reunion, it's easy to summarize: Asia was completely Kateless, and New York was utterly bereft of Rick, so it was no fun, and who wants to read about that?

* * *

 **September 10** **, 2010**

Roy Montgomery was watching Kate Beckett through his office blinds, and smiling to himself. Of course, he was the soul of discretion. He had taken care not to outwardly express his interest in her lightened mood since Labor Day weekend. Although there had been neither toned hide nor coiffed hair of Richard Castle at the twelfth precinct, Montgomery had noticed subtle evidence that Castle was there in spirit.

Esposito and Ryan had noticed the change too, but their questions were rebuffed at every turn. "Are you blushing, Beckett?" "Who's the package from, Beckett?" "Why were you in the supply closet with your phone and the door locked for twelve minutes, Beckett?"

She never answered any of the questions, but she didn't seem to mind the teasing that much, either. The one question nobody dared to ask her was, _"So, have you heard from Castle?"_

Evidence that she was hearing from _somebody_ ambled in like happy cats in search of a place to sleep in the sun. She got a card or letter of some kind almost daily, whether by mail or delivery. The occasional bouquet or single rose was delivered to her desk. Once, a literal wholesale shipment of cronuts arrived for the 12th, still warm from the only bakery in town that delivered them, proving once and for all that yes, it is impossible to have too many of the damn things. On a particularly late night, Chinese food was delivered for her team by order of "Detective Beckett's Secret Admirer." There was a package that Beckett took to the locker room to open. She never did say what was in it, but the blush on her cheeks spoke loudly.

There was smiling. There was the occasional possible tear during hushed phone calls. There was _giggling_. There was the time Beckett disappeared into the supply closet for twenty minutes, thinking nobody would notice, except that when she came back out again, her blouse was buttoned crooked. Nobody dared say a word about any of it, because Kate Beckett was happy, and when she was happy, she got a hell of a lot done. Surprisingly, even more than when she was miserable.

Most especially, Montgomery noticed after hours: Beckett's covert photos of her murder boards, followed by furious phone texting and discreet conversations, and her occasional snorted chuckle, and murmured variations of "You are out of your mind. No. That's crazy." This was sometimes, but not always, followed by a change in investigative tactic. Since Castle left with The Blonde Barracuda in May, the 12th's homicide solve rate had gone down a few points, to its normal 83%. Now it was taking an uptick again, hovering at 91%. Whatever was going on with Beckett, it was working... Until it wasn't.

* * *

 **September 9, 10, 11, 2010**  
There were three days when Detective Beckett seemed to have a cloud over her head, and it wasn't about the 9/11 anniversary, it wasn't a PMS cloud, it was a _"Why has there been no word?"_ cloud. She was trying to be casual about it. She was trying not to check her email and her texts and her phone every few minutes. She was even trying not to glance at the elevator every time the bell chimed. She worried a little blister in her lower lip, and didn't even stop when it broke through and bled.

On the first day, the boys teased her. On the second day, they got quiet. On the third day, they were really worried.

If you want to know whether Castle's 3-day covert mission to Thailand was successful, here's a stub article from Rutters International News Feed that almost nobody (except the eagle eyes of Kate Beckett) noticed:

 _ **Human Trafficking Ring Foiled Outside Bangkok**  
"Acting on a tip from an anonymous businessman,  
Thai police confirm that 26 minors  
were rescued from a squalid brothel  
operating out of a teak plantation.  
The children are being treated for trauma  
at a secure location and, when possible,  
reunited with their families. Those who have  
no safe home will be housed and rehabilitated  
at a privately-funded boarding school  
in an undisclosed location."_

Let's just add that a safe boarding school for abandoned street kids has been fully funded through a New York-based foundation. Also, Richard Castle is a proud silent partner of an elephant sanctuary where cattle prods, metal hooks, and shackled chains are not permitted. Also, incidentally, a key node on a heroin trafficking hub has gone mysteriously dry. Not bad for three days' work.

The rest would be redacted before this humble writer could even click "upload". As would this humble writer. _Boom._

Then on the 12th she came in after lunch, all smiles again, and things picked up mostly where they had been before, but now, there was an impatience. Beckett was waiting for something. Or someone. And she had a large bag from a cheesy boutique called Eleganceé hidden in her bottom drawer.

* * *

 **Friday, September 17, 2010**

Kate Beckett was leaving – get this – early. Before lunch. Putting in for eight days off, plus four weekend days, and apparently she was going to Go Somewhere and Do Something, or Possibly Nothing. Montgomery had backed her up on the _Beckett Is Not To Be Disturbed While On Vacation Rule_. This was new. The boys were giddy with speculation.

Ryan said, "She's going to Europe. Definitely England. It's close, the weather's not muggy, and..."

Esposito interrupted. "You kiddin', Bro? She's going to Bermuda."

"How do you know that?"

"She's been working on her base tan."

Ryan said, "Shut up, man, we're not supposed to notice stuff like..."

"Got her hair streaked? Come on. Whatever it is, it's gonna involve sun and salt water."

"It could be pool water."

"Yeah, but can you see Beckett lounging by a pool when she's saved up enough vacation days to..."

Beckett came up behind them. "That's enough. I'm coming clean. I'm going undercover at a Tibetan brothel, and I'm going to be swathed in three inches of camelhair felt for the entire trip." She held up her bronzed arm admiringly. "This is just to keep my Vitamin D level healthy."

"Aw, come on, Beckett, can't you tell us anything?" Ryan whined.

Esposito added, "I don't believe it, unless your new boyfriend is a Tibetan wool merchant. In which case, I need a new rug wholesale."

"Your bald spot's barely noticeable, Espo, and who said anything about a new boyfriend?"

Esposito started patting at the top of his scalp. He shot an anxious glance at Ryan, who leaned in, took a close look, and shook his head reprovingly at Beckett. "You're fine, man."

Esposito said, "Well, it ain't any of your old boyfriends."

"How do you know there's any boyfriend at all?"

Ryan chuckled. "Come on. Flowers? Little cards?"

Esposito piped up, "The Tarzan singing telegram?"

"September 7 is a holiday everyone should celebrate," said Beckett primly.

"I can't believe National Salami Day is really a thing," Ryan grumbled.

Esposito persisted. "Yeah, but I wanna know what happened on the night of the 15th."

Kate looked puzzled and thought back. "Uh, pop and drop in that alley by the Park, normally-broke suspect found spattered with blood, with victim's wallet full of cash at local dive bar, news at eleven?"

"National Creme de Menthe day."

"Ah," Kate said. "That explains why Lanie was late to the crime scene and smelled like toothpaste when she showed."

Esposito's mouth flapped open, then closed again.

Kate didn't tell him that...

* * *

 **Tuesday, September 14**

a messenger had shown up at her apartment on National Creme-Filled Donut Day.  
When she called Castle to thank him, he said, "Just make sure the delivery girl leaves right away."

"Why?"

"Because I want to watch you eat them. Slowly."

"Hang on. Don't go anywhere."

"How about if we Skype?"

"Go for it. I'm calling from my laptop anyway."

Beckett went to her desktop and switched on Skype. She checked the time difference: he was still in Thailand, eleven hours ahead at 6:30 a.m., and she hoped he was finished with his (was it really the CIA?) assignment, the elephant ride or whatever it was, he'd been so vague.

When they connected, she saw his face was rather vague in the low light of the hotel room, with the blinds still closed against the early-morning tropical sun. She said, "Hey, Castle. You _really_ want to watch me eat them?"

"That would be wonderful."

"Flame on!" she quipped. She lit a few candles (Yes: she'd gone to Charlie's flower shop and bought more). When the flames took, he realized that she was naked, with the light through a glass of red wine flickering on her face and body. Then she took a bite, rolled her eyes a little, and moaned sinfully. "So good."

"Yeah?"

"They remind me of you, Castle. Crisp on the outside. Fluffy but substantial. Sweet and soft on the inside."

"How sweet?" he rumbled.

She licked her lips, then sucked the tip of her finger. "Allow me to demonstrate."

Their conversation lasted a good half-hour. A _very_ good half hour. She showed him how very, very much she loved custard filled donuts, and he tried to demonstrate a very embarrassing trick that bull elephants can do with their trunks. The demonstration was unsuccessful, but it made Kate laugh, so overall, a win.

It came time to say goodbye. Castle leaned his face in closer to the screen's light, and she gasped. "What happened?"

He had a split on his lower lip, a bruise along his jaw, and two black eyes that he'd tried to hide with makeup. He chuckled. "You should see the other guy." He didn't mention the other bruises, which she hadn't seen in the poor image. "These will be nothing but a bad memory by the time I see you in the flesh," he said gently.

"Sometimes you worry me."

"I _worry_ you. _I_ worry _you_?"

"Well, you know, it's hard to tell where the bad boy ends and the good man begins." She said it lightly, and without criticism.

He took it more earnestly than she expected. "The good man began again the day you showed me your badge, Kate."

She smiled. "Well, I can't wait to see him again."

He responded typically, with that sweet joy, and just the faintest hint of surprise, hidden under a layer of arrogance. "Naturally. So why wait?"

She rolled her eyes. "Let me try to think of a good reason."

"Can you take time off? Meet me in California for a few days' R&R?"

"R and R?"

"Rock and Roll. Rights and Responsibilities. Rollicking romance? I like that word, 'rollick'. Ring around the Rosies." He waggled his eyebrows.

"All fall down." She pursed her lips, looking at his tour itinerary on the splitscreen of her laptop. "Okay. You'll be in San Francisco on Sunday the 19th. I could maybe do that."

His eyes widened. "Tell me more."

"Nope. I'll book a flight and let you know all the details. How long do you want me to stay?" She could see it in his face: _forever_.

But he said, "As long as you like. I have two signings on Sunday. I'll try to shift an extra to Tuesday afternoon and one to Thursday so we can have that first Sunday alone together. Does that work for you?"

"Yeah, if you can, it'd be great. And if not..."

He backpedaled. "No, no, I'll figure something out. I'll call in sick. Gina will kill me but..."

"You're with Gina?" Kate had realized that Gina was not going to just go away, any more than Meredith would. But it still made her feel a bit on edge.

"Ugh. No. She's meeting me at SFO. I think mostly because she wants to go to the de Young preview for that post-impressionist d'Orsay show."

"She likes art?" Kate was surprised.

"No. She likes art collectors."

"If you can't get Sunday off, I'll just go to the signing with you."

"Really?" Okay, that was an actual squeak.

Kate laughed. "Since you're all lit up like that, why don't we just plan on it? I can keep your Sharpies lined up in a row."

He winced. "Gina normally does that... you know she'll want to parade you around."

"Hey, if she's really nice to me, I might even sign a copy or two. Should I sign it as Kate Beckett?" She lowered her voice a breathy octave and punched up the New Yawk, "or Nikki Heat?"

He gave it some thought. "I wonder how Nikki holds her Sharpie?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you use a quadropod grip... It's kind of non-standard."

"I have a parsnip in the fridge. Want me to demonstrate?"

"Uh... not right now!"

"I wonder if I should check the parsnip or bring it in carry-on?"

His eyes were wide. "You won't need it once you get her," he rumbled. "I'm sure we'll be able to find you something similar in California."

"Nation's breadbasket," she nodded.

"Produce stand."

"Whatever."

* * *

 **Where was I?  
12th Precinct, Friday, September 17, 11:30 a.m.**  
Beckett had switched off her computer, and locked her desk. "Okay. I'm leaving early before another body drop drags me back in." She shoved a stack of files onto Ryan's desk, and said, "I've forwarded my phone messages to Espo. So from this point, until at least the morning of the 30th, I am fancy free and my life is my own."

"You got someone lookin' after your apartment and mail?"

Kate nodded. "My dad. All you have to do is field my work calls and enjoy not hearing me staring at you when you're fooling around."

"Okay then," Esposito said. "Have a good time."

"Send a postcard," added Ryan. "Or a selfie."

Kate held up her phone and, to their astonishment, turned her back to them, then flipped the setting to Self Portrait, extending a long arm so she could get the three of them in frame. "Make a face," she said. "I want to remember what idiots you can be."

She crossed her eyes, Ryan stuck out his tongue, and Esposito, well, you know. Not one to clown for the camera. But he scowled and flexed. So tough, it came out funny anyway.

She waved a quick goodbye to Montgomery, who was on the phone, then disappeared into the elevator, already texting someone.

* * *

 **Saturday, September 18, 2010, 7:10 a.m. PST**  
 **San Francisco International Airport**  
 **Domestic Flight Pickup**

Rick stood at the domestic pickup curb at SFO, waiting for Gina. She'd stayed in the States for the overseas portion of his tour, but was determined to hit most of his U.S. signings. Whether she intended to keep him in line or to hook him back in as a fuck-buddy, he wasn't sure. He was jetlagged and operating on three hours' sleep. His flight from Portland had been delayed, and he'd been going since 4 a.m., riding on the fumes from bad airline coffee and a bag of stale pretzels for breakfast. His raging headache was exacerbated by the Traffic Control Officer standing next to him, blowing incessantly on an official steel whistle.  
 _ ** **  
****_Hoping to cheer himself up, Rick texted Kate.

 _ **RC:** "Hey, just got to SFO from PDX."_  
 _ **KB:** "Early! Flight ok?"_  
 _ **RC:** "actually a day late was supposed to do redeye but delayed. Can U confirm travel plans yet?"_  
 _ **KB:** "Looks like I won't be meeting U 2night, something came up."_

Rick sighed, typed four different answers, and deleted all of them before sending.  
 _"Got cold feet?" "Do you plan to come at all?" "I'll miss you." "Look, why don't we just take a break & I'll call you when I get back to NYC?"_

 _ **KB:** "RU still going to signing in Manzanita Creek?"_

Rick typed, _"Why would you care? You're working. Have fun with that."_ Then he deleted it. _  
_"Grow up, Castle," he murmured under his breath. He was embarrassed at his own frustration, his own hopes, his own disappointment. And he was trying not to admit his own anger. Next to him, the traffic cop tweeted an ear-splitter, and Castle glowered, moving his luggage back from the curb to let another traveler catch their ride.

 ** _7:57 a.m._**  
 _ **RC:** "Sorry delayed reply. Gina's circling to pick me up. Yes Manzanita Creek."_  
 _ **KB:** "Middle of nowhere but I hear it's pretty."_  
 _ **RC:** "So am I."_  
 _ **KB:** ":-D dream on."_  
 _ **RC:** "Only of you." _ He was trying, really trying, not to lash out at Kate. He couldn't control her behavior, but he could, at least, control his own. _"Have you booked a flight to SF?"_  
 _ **KB:** "Not exactly."_

* * *

 **8:02 a.m., Arroyo Manzanita, CA  
Squirrel's Rest Inn And Spa**

Kate set her phone down and started pinning her hair into little spiral pincurls. She took a platinum-blonde wig off the bedpost, where she'd left it to shape overnight, and, bending forward, pulled the wig over the pincurls. She peered at her reflection through the lush, wavy blonde bangs. Her makeup was already done, and she was barely recognizable. She grinned. "Oh, Castle, you are gonna love this."

* * *

 **8:02 a.m., SFO**

"I hate this," he murmured, staring down at the screen. Then came heard an overpriced, elegant honk-like tootle. He looked up at the silver Jaguar pulling up by the curb, thrust his phone into his pocket, and rolled his suitcase toward the trunk, which swung open for him. The trunk contained Gina's set of two rolling Fendi suitcases and her Gucci satchel, plus an opaque plastic bin of familiar items Rick used at book signings: Sharpies, bottled water, Kleenex for the fans who cried (this happened at about 70% of his events), smelling salts (more than one fan had passed out over the years), hand sanitizer, a pair of Lavalier wireless microphones, a small amplifier, ice pack (signing could be taxing on hand, arm, and shoulders) and an extremely comfy gel seat cushion.

He poked his head in through the passenger window. "Hey, Gina. You mind driving?"

"No, this car's better than sex." She arched an eyebrow at him, but he didn't take the bait (she was expecting his usual comeback along the lines of "Then you've been doing it wrong.").

Instead he just got into the car and buckled in. "Thanks for picking me up."

"I live to serve," she said. This was a patent lie, but he had no energy to challenge it. They pulled away from the curb before the airport cop could blast his whistle to urge them along. The cop looked downright disappointed, the whistle pouting from his lips like an unlit cigarette. Rick murmured through the window at the officer's puzzled face. "It's such a shame, you could have started a one-man band."

After Gina guided the Jag out of the parking lot labyrinth and merged onto Highway 101, she glanced sidelong at Rick, his face now lit by full daylight. "Jesus, Rick, are those bruises?"

"It's nothing."

"You look like hell. I knew I should have met up with you in Tokyo."

"I'm fine," he said flatly. Before and after the operation at Thailand, he'd hopped all around Asia, flown from Tokyo to Portland, spent a day there at Powell's Books and visited a couple of writer-frenemies. He'd gotten more than a few odd looks - some defensive, some sympathetic or concerned.

The only thing Gina was ever really concerned about was keeping up appearances. "Do you have any concealer with you?"

"Are you kidding?"

"Did you seriously show up at Powell's Books looking like you'd been rolled by ninjas?"

He coughed slightly. "You have no idea how close that is to the truth," he grumbled under his breath.

Gina knew the way to Tree and Leaf, of course; he didn't need to direct her. She exited Highway 101 and turned west toward the ocean, winding through majestic redwood forest and the occasional clearing. The morning sun sliced through the trees, angled beams illuminating bright-green fern and the rusty-red duff fallen from the immense conifers. Gina wasn't much for noticing things like trees, but he rolled down the window a moment to sniff air with a scent he could only think of as "green". The wind ruffled their hair; she scowled at him and used her switch to close his window again. "Do you mind?" she snapped. "I don't want to show up looking like a hobo. There's concealer in my purse. Don't forget the dark circles." She pointed at her immense shoulder purse. "Help yourself."

"Seriously?"

"I'm not pulling over for you to dig your own stuff out. We're running late as it is."

He rummaged in her purse, locating a makeup pouch roughly the size of Atlanta. Pulling down the mirror/visor, he dabbed concealer on his bruises and the dark circles under his eyes. "It's orange," he groaned.

"It's not. It's Sun-Kissed Peach. It'll compensate for the brown and green."

"I look like a game show host."

"Put powder over it. It'll blend better on your skin."

He rummaged some more and found her powder compact, dabbing away miserably. It was four shades too light.

"Now I look like a mummified mime."

"Yes, but at least a healthy mummified mime. It's supposed to be translucent, so just blend it out, okay?"

He grabbed a tissue and swept it across his face, dejected. "Satisfied?"

"Much better." She said, "Look, I know you're a bit stressed out. Do you want a Xanax or... anything?" If there was any kind of financial bearing on a situation, she was a veritable rock, and she was obviously worried that Rick's tension would make for a disappointing meet-and-greet with potential buyers. Her tongue darted out, just briefly, to touch her coral-colored lip gloss. On another trip through these woods, long ago, they'd had a similar fight. Then Rick had pulled off the highway and driven 100 feet into the shadows of a side logging road, and they'd had spectacular make-up sex on the back hood of a rented Ferrari.

He hadn't forgotten, but he didn't want to repeat the experience. "No," he snapped.

Her face fell, and he bit his lip in contrition. "I'm sorry. It's just... no thanks."

She snarled, "Then quit whining and do an attitude adjustment. You want to sell some books at this dump."

"It's not a dump. Arroyo Manzanita has a real history. And I like supporting independent bookstores."

"You mean floundering bookstores. Everybody knows that the chains are where the money is."

"All the more reason to show up for the little guy."

As they approached Arroyo Manzanita, they reached Gina's part in an age-old argument where she groused, "Does _everything_ have to be a cause with you?"

"Well, maybe if your life weren't so full of depth and meaning..."

"Are you saying I'm shallow?"

He gritted in frustration, which distorted the Ess speech therapy hadn't ever quite fixed. "I'm shaying you should definitely never get a pet goldfish." He frowned in mock concentration, then brightened: "How about an amoeba!"

She gave it one last try, smirking, "Well, I landed Moby Dick once upon a time. Seems like I was deep enough for what you had to offer."

"Yeah, that was before..." he went silent.

"Before Kate?"

"Before Captain Ahab revealed her arsenal of emotional harpoons. Before I divorced you for differences that are shtill apparently irreconcilable."

They passed a cluster of rustic houses, a couple of farm stands, a feed store, a diner, a 2-pump gas station, a boarded-up motel, a hardware store with nursery and sundries. Even accounting for the narrow cement sidewalks, Arroyo Manzanita is barely a widening in the road. That's the first block, and there are only two, really. On the second block, there's a locally-owned grocery store and the E-Z-8 Bar and Grille, flanking a false-fronted Quanset hut theater, the Hermes Grand Pavilion (seats 80). On that particular weekend, there was a matinee double feature with _Machete_ and _My Dog Tulip_.

On the left, past the post office, gift shop and next door to Sweet Sally's Coffee Shack, is Tree and Leaf Books. That whole block is California Storybook Medieval, built in the 1920s, with some of the buildings reputedly (unconfirmed) designed by the eminent Julia Morgan – including the bookstore. It's equal parts Hobbiton and Woodstock. Placed on the southwest corner of Snake Grade Road and First Street, the store's clerestory windows make it gorgeous and sunny almost all day.

* * *

 **Saturday, September 18, 9:22 a.m.**

The proprietors were just opening up. Rick got out of the Jag, pulled his laptop out of the back seat, and closed the door with that deliberate gentleness that warned Gina not to mess with him because he was only going to get more reasonable right up to the moment he started yelling. Gina disembarked the driver side and slammed the door, started toward the bookshop, then stopped. "Trunk."

She booped the electronic key fob, and the door sprang open. She yanked out a few useful items and piled them in her arms while Castle stalked away.

"No, I can manage. Really," she whined, tripping along behind him in her cream-colored snakeskin Farragamos, with purse over her shoulder, the plastic box in her arms, and the Gucci satchel dangling from her elbow.

Rick checked his text messages as he approached the bookstore, but there was nothing new from Kate. His heart sank. It would be just like her to get cold feet, wouldn't it? He fully expected his next text to be a _"sorry, I can't make it!"_ apology. Maybe a body drop note. Or worse, a _"We need 2 talk. Having 2nd thoughts,"_ text. He tried to force himself to accept that, despite their staying in touch over his trip, absence hadn't made Kate's heart grow fonder.

Inside Tree and Leaf is something of a work of art. If you're fond of that old-book smell, coffee or tea, cats, and browsing around to find the perfect read, it's the bookstore of your wildest dreams. It's quiet, but lively, and feels like an extension of the forest surrounding it. The carpeting is an ancient, faded green patterned with ferns. The bookshelves are handmade pine. Mounted to a high wall, the red-barked trunk and branches of a twisted madrone tree arch out over the cash register and sales counter. The madrone's branches are festooned with a few hundred white fairy lights and odd ornaments, many of them handmade: angels, fairies, bundles of lichen, little woodland animals, false and dried flowers and fruit, a few beads and crystals, even a bird's nest. Occasionally little bits of bark fall into someone's hair, or their to-go beverage. Nobody minds.

If you look up above the branches, you'll note that, back in the 1970s, somebody's nephew painted an intricate Maxfield Parrish-homage mural in the center ceiling panels. It's a little water-stained and faded, but you can see the two proprietors there in the flower of their youth: a tall man reading a book, and a short, curvy woman, cloud-gazing against a glowing, cobalt sky. This bookstore is still run by these two, now aged hippies. Introduced at a beach bonfire, it seemed kismet that Tree (aka Bob Herkheimer) and Leaf (aka Gloria Price) would become friends, then lovers, then business partners, and after a few decades of up-and-down, a comfortable blend of the three.

Still graceful in her early seventies, Leaf is low-to-the-ground with kind eyes that a poet once described as "periwinkle periscopes that see all from the depths". She favors turquoise and purple, sometimes smokes hash in the office (an add-on back porch 'wing' overlooking the creek), and is twice-divorced. She will be the first to tell you: _Never marry a man who doesn't respect your reading time._ She reads a lot of books on spirituality and geology, and she loves a good mystery once in a while. _  
_

Tree is very tall even while stooping, with an ash-gray beard. What's left of his hair is pulled back into a ratty braid about the thickness of a pencil. He doesn't drink anymore, but back in the day, his shamanistic psilocybin mushroom retreats were the stuff of legend. He likes to wear bootleg T-shirts from the many concerts he has attended. He's almost completely deaf, but his sharp eyes notice everything. He likes science fiction, conspiracy theories, and spy novels.

Tree and Leaf – the store they named after themselves - has a massive selection of used books, a minor selection of rarities, a vast array of books on the California ecosystem, plenty of local maps and tourist guides, a few movies to buy or rent, and a smattering of new books, mostly chick-lit for book-of-the-monthers, bestsellers, classics, and of course, mysteries. Richard Castle's entire catalog (including the romance novels penned by "Victoria St. Claire") is prominently displayed in its own bookcase. Castle had dropped in to sign every title, ever since his very first tour. There are larger, more profitable bookstores in the Bay Area, and he usually covered at least two, but he always made a point to come to Tree and Leaf as well. Suffice to say that they have a 'silent partner' who had chipped in to keep the bookstore from going belly-up when Manzanita Creek flooded in 1986. And 1997. And 2009.

There are also usually a couple of cats around. One is female, a temperamental calico named Belindy who will sidle up to you, rub against your legs in a deceptively friendly manner, box at you with her claws, then rocket away. The other is George. He's an immense gray tabby, is known to catch the occasional mouse, and loves sleeping in the sun. They're both rescue cats. There are locals who come in to see the cats and read or chat but never buy any books. But business is steady, helped by the bookstore's proximity to Sweet Sally's, the coffee house next door. The bookstore itself cannot technically _serve_ coffee and pastries, because of the cats. However, if you walk in with coffee or a Sweet Sally's muffin, sit at one of their tables and read one of their books, they turn a blind eye.

* * *

Tree and Leaf each greeted Rick with a hug, and Gina with a warm smile, since her hands were full.

Gina handed off the plastic bin to Tree, and excused herself to go next door for a cappuccino and a quiet sulk in the bathroom. This is because the bar across the street hadn't opened yet.

Nearly a foot shorter than Rick, Leaf stood peering at him, her hands on his shoulders. He noticed her eyes had faded a little with cataracts.

He smiled down at her. "Lovely as always."

She quirked a fond smile, then pursed her lips. "You're not. Your aura's cloudy."

"I'm sure I'll brighten up in a little while," he said, without that much conviction. He had mixed feelings about Leaf's psychic abilities, even though she had her moments of intuition. But she was, above all very kind, a virtue he'd seen in short supply throughout his tour. In fact, throughout his year.

Tree said, "What happened to your eye, Man?" He'd never dropped the habit of tagging that word onto the end of every question he asked, and most statements he made. But he still listened to the Grateful Dead on an almost constant basis, so we can forgive his mind for being in something of a loop.

Rick brushed at the bruise, mostly hidden under concealer, and said, "What happened in Thailand stays in Thailand."

"Whoo." Tree chuckled. "You bring me anything, Man?"

"Not really, unless you count this." He reached into his laptop bag and pulled out a gorgeous silk scarf for Leaf. It was iridescent, blue-to-magenta, with floral motifs embossed into the fabric. "Looks good with your eyes."

"Oh!" she murmured. She took it out of the package, sniffed it (sandalwood and synthetic dye) and opening it, draped it around her shoulders. She gave a twirl, and Tree whistled. She always wore violet, and the colors played together.

Rick added, "And this for you." He handed Tree a small mulberry-paper wrapped packet, which contained a carved wooden goddess, a hot little creature with hemispherical breasts. Her outspread wings were painted in red, green, and metallic gold, and a green snake coiled at her groin. "She's actually from Bali. I took a stop on the way back."

"Far out," Tree grinned. "Man, look at those little tatas."

Leaf snorted. "Some things never change."

"That's right, Baby," said Tree. He gave her chest a friendly leer, and she laughed and smacked at him gently with her new scarf.

Within moments he'd found some string and scissors from behind the counter, reached up with a long arm to tie onto a madrone twig, and the little goddess hovered, ruling in sexy benevolence over the register, among the lights and fake butterflies.

Leaf checked the time. "Well, we start the reading at 10:30. I know you've already got a few fans hanging out next door. Tree, why don't you set up the reading table with the sound system and everything."

Rick began, "I'll just help..."

Leaf clamped onto Rick's bicep. "You come to the back room with me." Rick hesitated. "Oh, come on."

Tree was plugging in the mic receiver and testing the small PA speaker. His voice came through at about 78 decibels. "NO POINT ARG-" he stopped as feedback screeched. "No point arguing with the ol' lady, Man. You know her."

Rick silently wondered whether there was a point to arguing with any woman, ever. He followed Leaf into the back room. The converted solarium was really beautiful, in a Bohemian way. Every color of the rainbow was represented in the decor, but all in deep, vibrant tones, all lit by the sun from the large windows that overlooked Manzanita Creek. Most prominent was an ornate chaise lounge, which was upholstered in burgundy velvet and liberally laced in cat hair. The cat in question, George, was actually on the chaise lounge. Leaf picked her up, kissed him on the nose, and him on a purple velveteen pad atop a low bookshelf. The sun shone pink through the cat's ears. He initially looked offended, but lulled by the warmth, he yawned and settled in for another snooze.

Leaf pointed to the coat tree. "You're choking the flow of chi from your heart to your brain. Lose the jacket and tie, and undo that collar."

He did so, looking around and then out of the window.

"Wow. Looks almost exactly the same." He could see the most recent water line etched in mud and dry weeds on the tree trunks, a few inches higher than the floor of the solarium. There were big-leaf maples dropping their yellow leaves, graceful, mulit-trunked bay trees, creek-side trunks of second-growth redwoods. There were swaths of fern, mossy rock, fiery-red poison oak and green wild grape vines. "I've never seen the water so low."

"I've never seen you so low, either."

"I mean the creek. It's almost dry now."

"That's autumn in the Redwoods," Leaf nodded. "The flood last spring wasn't so bad this time."

"Glad the sandbags helped."

"Getting the foundation jacked up two feet helped more," she smiled. That had been when Alexis was three, just after he caught Meredith with her director. He'd been in the mood to fix something, and what better to fix than a flooded hippie bookstore? "You like the couch? I managed to find some vintage upholstery stuff online. So thanks for the check, it helped. Better than new."

"My pleasure. Everything looks great."

"Really, it's the vibration of the different colors in the fabrics. The pattern may vary, but the dance knows its way. Now lay down."

"Look..." he gestured helplessly.

"Lay down." Her voice was serene, but firm. She chose a large Tibetan singing bowl from among several, and rang it with a padded mallet around its rim. Its mellow hum floated through the air. He could feel it vibrating slightly in his sinuses. He sighed and hung his tie, then his jacket, on the carved Victorian rosewood coat tree (it was just a little wobbly). Then he partially lay on the chaise lounge.

She tutted. "All the way down. Shoes off. Feet up. Close your eyes."

He lay back. "You don't have to..."

"Yes I do," she chuckled. "Someone's gotta clean you out." She knelt on a peacock-blue ottoman by his head, and sounded the bowl again. (Really, its tone was a bit like the register in which Beckett spoke when she was really sure about something.) "Now. Close your eyes and breathe white light in, through the nose. Out through the mouth. From the diaphragm. Like I've showed you before."

She lit a sage incense stick, said a prayer over it, and waved it around a little (not over his head, at least!). He sneezed.

"Good!" she said. "Just dark energy working its way out." She handed him a tissue. "Clear your sinuses."

He gave a good blow and felt somewhat better, to his own surprise. The sage actually smelled good, mixed with the scent of woods, moss, and bay leaf from the open window, Leaf's China Rain essential oil, and somewhere underneath it all, the warm whiff of books and cats.

"Got kittens this year?" he said.

"Yeah. Had to bottle feed them for ten days. They're in the office, sound asleep."

It was growing easier to keep his eyes closed. "See them," he mumbled. He'd gotten up early, he was a few hours past his last coffee, and he had jet lag. "Titties." He meant kitties, but she didn't tease him about it.

"Later." She continued to hunker on the ottoman, a basket of crystals on her lap, waving them over his forehead and singing under her breath. She took a large rose quartz and held it over his heart chakra, then scowled at it, shook it, blew on it as if wiping off invisible dust, then made similar motions with different stones, flicking at the air with her fingers. "Oh, sweetheart," she murmured. "Your samana's all dinged up."

"Totally out of my depth," he rasped in agreement.

"I didn't need the black eye to see that," she said. She passed her hands above his body from head to toe. She repeated this three times, close enough that he could feel her warmth, hear the creaking and cracking in her joints and tendons, the slightly labored breathing around the tight waistband of her skirt.

She sat back on her ottoman again, put a drop of lotion on her fingers, and delicately massaged his face and scalp. The lotion dissolved the concealer cream covering his bruises, which were on the shiny side of green. His breathing grew even, and she let him sleep for exactly seven minutes while she meditated over him. Then she awoke him with a gentle shake of his shoulder, and a question.

"What happened, Ricky?"

"Bad guys," he murmured. "Can't say anything more."

"You gave as good as you got?"

The corner of his mouth quirked. "Better."

She stroked up into his forehead, knew he was pretty relaxed, because he wasn't pitching a fit about his hair. "Violence is not the answer."

"You'd change your mind if you'd seen the question," he said.

"There's a black hole in your aura, honey. Only one thing can heal that. What's missing?" she asked gently.

He sighed. "My muse."

"The extraordinary K.B? You were hoping to introduce her to us."

"Yeah." He didn't look too surprised that she knew.

"But she's not coming?"

"No." His brow furrowed.

Although she wasn't touching it directly, Leaf sensed the lump in his throat, and his still-closed eyes squeezed back tears. Through her fingertips, she could hear them fighting to get out, a tiny rushing sound like water inside an ice cube about to crack. She remembered how he'd been when she first met him as a boy, at loose ends with his mother working on location. As an accomplished man in his prime, he was so very changed, and yet the same person at his core. A little lost, full of hope and fire, love and fear and a terrible grief. Someone who can't find a place to fit, because he just knows too much and can't let go.

"Do you believe you're worthy of love?" she asked.

His mouth turned bitter. "What kind of question is that?"

"It's one of the few that are actually important."

He sat up and swung his feet down to the ground, huffing, "I have to go on in-" he glanced at his watch "- Shit! Thirty-five minutes, and I do not have the time or energy for this... stuff."

She said, "I noticed," and calmly put the stones and bowl to the side. She bumped George, and he trilled plaintively at her.

Rick was putting his shoes on. Despite his irritation, he quirked his hand around to scritch the cat's ears. "Sometimes you drive me nuts."

"Sometimes everybody drives you nuts, but it's a short trip."

Rick chuckled ruefully. "Problem is, I think we should drive each other nuts more often. We're out of practice."

She stroked the cat's belly. "No question at all, Big Boy, you were born to be loved." George curled around with a purr, yawned, extended a paw in regal acknowledgment, and fell back to sleep.

Rick wasn't sure whether Leaf was speaking to him or George. He huffed a little sigh, and peered at her from under his mussed hair. "I know you mean well. It's just..."

She nodded sagely. "There are some things even my ol' witchy hippy chick stuff can't fix."

"That's pretty complex sentence structure for someone who's spent a third of her life slightly buzzed."

"Eh. I contain multitudes. Wash your face, you look like hell."

"People keep saying that." They both rose, and hugged briefly. "Thanks for trying," he said.

"I'll be out front, herding the literate masses."

He stepped into the bathroom. It was painted a warm golden-yellow, the fixtures vintage 1920s, the window molding probably original to Morgan's design but flaking with dry rot. The mirror was etched with a rose design and spotty with corrosion. He scowled at himself, particularly the faded bruises under his eyes, then smoothed his face into a pleasant, neutral mask. At least the headache was gone, along with the miserable attempt at a coverup.

He visualized through his signing routine. Shake hands, look the buyer - _the reader_ \- in the eye. Smile. Say _"Hello. Thank you so much for reading. For whom? Spell that? You're welcome. See you next time."_ And on, and on. He always tried to remember how he'd felt when he first started, so excited that anyone would read a sentence, a whole paragraph, a page, a chapter, a book, a series. All these people had invited him into their minds to tell them a story. It was magic.

Today, there would be no magic. Last night, Kate had texted him:

 _"Don't meet me at SFO Sat night. Work stuff. Change in flight plans... will let you know as soon as it's settled."_

 **RC:** _"You're still coming out west? No pressure."_

Oh, how he wanted to pressure her. Preferably into the best mattress money can buy, covered with 800-count bamboo sheets.

 **KB:** _"DEFINITELY still coming :-) Can't wait to see you."_

 **RC:** _"Feeling is mutual."_

Well, apparently she _could_ wait, and it wasn't mutual, because as of her last text, she wasn't going to be in at the time they'd tentatively arranged. He'd pulled quite a few strings to shift his appearance schedule around so that he could take a day or two off with Kate. And when he'd told Gina, his ex-wife and former lover had, ever-so-helpfully, said, "Well, maybe you should get used to this. It's not like you've ever been able to trust her with anything." Gina's words rang in his mind. She wasn't any fun, but she knew the whole situation well enough to see that Kate was, at best, skittish.

He rinsed his face and dried it on a paper towel, finger-combed his hair, used the toilet (he wouldn't have a break until at least noon), washed up, and grabbed his blazer on the way out into the main bookstore. The room was warm, so he just slung the blazer over the back of his chair, along with the tie that suddenly seemed stupid and constricting, and stretched a little, enjoying his last few moments of relative solitude. He checked his messages to no avail. Tree had already set up stacks of books to sign, and pens, drinking water, a tally sheet, chairs for the chapter reading, and stanchions for line management both indoors and out. So far they had pre-sold 47 books. With the reading and Q&A session, and signing at a rate of 90 seconds each, he wouldn't be getting much of a break until 12:30. He sighed, already drained, with the day not even started at 9:57 on a rapidly-warming Saturday morning, when he wanted nothing more than to find the nearest hotel room and cover his head with a pillow stuffed with marshmallows soaked in single-malt.

But he readied himself for the reading, clipping his mic onto his shirt and murmuring "Test", adjusting the sound on the speaker to a manageable level. He could hear Gina outside, talking to the line of people, waiting for the doors to open at ten. "Hello, everyone," she said. "No stories, no hugs, and Mr. Castle is only signing books today. No, I'm so sorry, he did a limited edition on the tattoo signings, he's not doing that any more. No, I'm sorry, not even on the arm."

To his surprise, there was a moment of quiet, Gina speaking with another woman in hushed tones. Then Gina announced to the line in a strained voice, "Uh, okay, everyone. Mr. Castle will be delayed. We'd like to invite everyone in line to use your advance book purchase receipt as a voucher for a free drink at Sally's next door, courtesy of Black Pawn Books."

Castle gaped at the door. "That's a new one."

He then glanced over at Tree, who was wearing little white earbuds, a Jerry Garcia solo clearly audible. Tree didn't look up. Leaf came out of the office and gave Rick a very peculiar look, then bustled to the door. She spoke quietly to someone outside, then gestured. "Come on in, Officer."

A tall, blonde woman strode in, with her navy trench coat swinging around her long legs like the wings of a dark angel.

Castle tried to say something suave, something like "Good morning, Officer, what can I do for you?" but all that emerged was a sound rather like, "Bewpfh?" Which is what one would say if a NYPD homicide detective were to stroll without warning into a rural bookstore and shove her badge under your nose.

Especially if that NYPD homicide detective were Kate Beckett, three time zones away from where he was expecting her to be, wearing a blonde wig and her scariest interrogation face.

 **END CHAPTER 19.**  
Don't panic. I'm also posting 20.


	20. HBSB ch20: DING!

**He Bought, She Bought, Chapter 20  
**  
 **DING!  
**

* * *

 **Arroyo Manzanita, CA**

 ** **Saturday 9/19, 10 a.m**.  
** While Leaf let Detective Beckett into the store, Gina scanned the crowd. "All right, we'll be letting Mr. Castle's audience in in just a few minutes. In the meantime, I, uh, if you can all wait behind this stanchion, I'll return shortly. I have this thing..." she pointed vaguely behind her. "Thank you."

In the bathroom at Sally's, Gina plucked a 1-ounce bottle of "Skymall" rum out of the zippered lining of her purse and poured the contents into her cappucino. She drank most of it down, then shrugged her tastefully padded shoulders, refreshed her coral-colored lip gloss, and murmured, "It's you or me, Becky."

* * *

 **Saturday 9/19, 10 a.m**.

Every inch the no-nonsense detective, Kate Beckett said, "Richard Castle?" and held her badge up to his nose.

Rick dithered. "Yes, Ma'am. Officer." He tried to look calm but it was close to impossible, so he hid his face in his hands to conceal his massive grin, and chuckled into his palms, "Holy shit."

Tree glanced from Castle to Beckett and back again. "Oh, Man. Is this a bust?"

"I'm with the police," said Beckett. That was mostly true. "I have some questions for Mr. Castle."

Tree said, "Man, are you new around here? I don't think sheriffs dress like that..."

Castle made a desperate gesture toward the crowd milling outside. "But..."

She narrowed her eyes. "I can either pull it out of you here, or I can... take you."

"Take me?"

"Downtown."

Castle swallowed, choking out something like, "Guh."

Beckett turned to Leaf. "Is there someplace we can have a quiet talk? Police business."

"Oh, yes, Officer!" Leaf twittered. She twinkled at Rick, and pointed at the back office door.

Rick's jaw dropped with confusion, uncertain whether Leaf, Tree, or even possibly Gina had been in cahoots with Beckett. Through the front window and open door, the waiting crowd went into a tizzy as well, and cam phones started popping up like flashing Whack-a-Moles while Gina pleaded in vain for them to give Mr. Castle some privacy.

Rick went for the back office, with the _"Employees Only"_ sign. "After you."

Beckett said, "Thank you, Mr. Castle," and brushed against him slightly as she passed through the doorway. He felt as if sparks were swarming across his skin.

They were alone in the distinctly unromantic light of a bookstore's back room. Slapped (without permits) onto the rear of the building in the late 70s, it was a companion to the solarium that took up the other half back off the building, but with more ramshackle wood than windows, crammed with boxes of books, and shelves of books, and piles and stacks of books. The room smelled very slightly of Lysol and hashish, but more of books, stale incense and dust.

There was a task chair on wheels, and two hideous brown vinyl and chrome guest chairs. The walls were hung with cracked promotional posters (mostly Dead stuff, beat poets and reproductions of Rolling Stone covers), a bulletin board with a poster of "EMPLOYEE RIGHTS AND RESPONSIBILITIES". There was a small fridge, an empty water cooler base, a wall-mounted time-punch clock, and employee lockers that looked as if they had fallen off the back of a delivery truck and sat in an irrigation ditch for a couple of Midwest winters. A huge vintage oak desk dominated the room. It was surprisingly neat with only a blotter, a cup of pens, and a battered clip-on lamp with a hinged swing arm. The desk would probably have lasted a couple of millennia... without undue stress.

(Perhaps I should mention that the wood-chewing beetle colony that had been living in the left side of the desk for about 30 years had undermined its structural integrity.)

Castle closed and locked the door, turned and got as far as "Ka-" before their bodies were clamped together like a simile for two bodies clamped together. Their teeth actually bumped with the force of that kiss, and she cut her lip a little on somebody's tooth but didn't care, returning his fierce embrace with a ferocity all her own. He lifted her off the floor slightly and swung her easily, his arms a delicious bear-hug on her ribs. Then he stood holding her, just breathing into the awful blonde wig against her shoulder, and she felt a deep tremor run through him. He rasped, "God. You smell amazing. You _are_ amazing."

"Hey," she said. She turned her mouth to feather her lips along his jaw. "Glad to see me?"

"So. Very. Glad." Between kisses, he said, "I was afraid you were gonna back out. Thought you were..."

"I got lucky, booked an early flight. Stayed at a local B&B." She smiled a little, touching the pink tip of her tongue to the little cut bump on her swollen lip. She almost looked like a cartoon, in the golden-blonde wig, the dark eyeliner, the red lipstick. Her hazel eyes sparkled with arousal.

He stroked her upper arms. The trench coat was a bit oversized and loose. He wanted skin. Suddenly he ached for it, and became aware that he'd been suppressing that ache since the moment he left her back in New York. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, I figured you needed some fun. And I know you like surprises. Also... I needed to tell you something important, in person. But first, make sure your mic is off."

"It is off."

"Are you sure?"

"Uh..." He flipped the switch. "Yes." (He was wrong. The mic is _always_ on.)

Rick took her face between his palms and kissed her tenderly. "Sorry about your lip," he whispered.

"It'll be fine."

"Why the blonde wig?"

Kate rolled her eyes in trepidation. "Didn't want anyone to recognize me. I was going to surprise you in line, just come up and..." She gave a cute little wave. He shook his head. That would have been a disaster.

She continued, "Yeah. I know, not my most brilliant plan. But Gina saw right through me, pulled me out of line and told me she'd out me if I didn't go right in. I think her exact words were 'Don't fuck up his hair'."

There was a rap on the door, Tree calling, "Rick, I think your mic's on, Man."

"Shit." He switched it off again, and stuck it in the back pocket of his trousers.

"You got ten minutes, Man."

"Okay. Fine."

Ugh. _So_ not fine.

His chuckle was a little more like a sob, and he blinked back tears he'd been holding down since Bangkok. "I'm... I'm so glad. And a little surprised. Okay, floored." You might not think it, but this was one of those moments that make or break a relationship, because sometimes you have to call bullshit.

Beckett examined his face carefully, hands cupping his elbows. "Castle," she said. "What happened? You look like hell."

She saw the shutters go up, the smooth smile, the denial.

He said, "I'm fine. I'm just so glad to..."

Kate massaged his biceps with her thumbs. "Rick. Usually it's _'All About Kate'._ I know that, so don't argue _._ But today? It's all about you. I've been worried. What's going on?"

"I'm tired." That looked like the truth, then he smirked, starting with the tied belt of her regulation-issued navy trench coat, then the buttons. "But not too tired." Her coat now open, he reached around. His large hands palmed her ass and lower back, pulling her against his hips, hard and fast. She gasped, lust for a moment taking her, and they kissed deeply, savoring one another, heartbeats accelerating, breathless. Her hands roved over his back and chest.

"...See you," he husked, tugging the coat off her shoulders, shoving it down to drape over the desk. Underneath it she wore a cheesy little Stripper Cop outfit: a navy blazer, a short-sleeved baby blue blouse with a tacky little necktie, a plastic name tag engraved with "Officer McNasty", and oh, dear God, a black miniskirt that barely covered her groin. And stockings, a discreet sheer nude, tantalizing with an edge of French lace at the top, barely concealed by her skirt.

He stepped back to take in every mile of her legs. "Whew."

She grinned. "Surprised?"

"That doesn't begin to cover... _wait_." He explored up her ribs to find that under the flimsy blouse, she wore nothing, not even a camisole. It was easy to see the pink intimation of her nipples through the translucent fabric. He caressed her breasts lightly, dragging nails gently over swelling flesh. "Did you have plans for me, Officer McNasty?" he rumbled through an incandescent smile.

"Oh!" she murmured, and squirmed against him. "I did. I do!" But then she closed her hands over his own, stopping him. Both were breathing hard. "But you have to promise me something."

His eyes were hazy with lust. "Anything. And I do mean _anything_." They started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Promise me we'll talk about whatever happened on your trip. As much as you can. Today. Alone."

He stiffened. I mean, the rest of him stiffened. "I can't give you any details."

"I don't care about the details that much." She helped him out of his button-down, then lifted his tee shirt. There were bruises, one below his left collarbone, a faint memory of fingers on his neck, what might have been the mud-colored print of fists on his abdomen and side. She frowned at the evidence of pain he was still hiding. "I just want to know..." she hesitated, running a gentle finger down his sternum, through the sparse, light-brown hair. "You hide so much."

He smiled uncertainly. "And yet I never run out of stuff to talk about."

"I want to know _you_ , Rick." Her leg rose to pull his hips in toward hers.

As her calf tightened around his ass, the mic in his back pocket switched on again.

* * *

 **10:05 a.m.**  
Outside in the bookstore, Leaf glanced at the PA speaker as the Kate's voice rang through the room. _"I want to know you in every way I possibly can. You don't have to hide how you feel anymore. About anything."_

* * *

 **10:05:16 a.m.**  
In the office, Rick nodded, placing gentle hands on Kate's shoulders to steady her, and she could see that tears had started up again in his bloodshot eyes, and he blinked them back again. "All right." Her heart broke a little at his smile. He looked like he was waiting for her to let him down, bracing for a blow of some kind.

She kissed his cheeks softly and shifted her weight so that her pubic bone pressed against his hardness. He groaned.

* * *

 **10:05:19 a.m.**  
Out in the bookstore, the PA speaker squealed feedback as Beckett's calf ground the microphone into the lining of his Castle's back pocket.

* * *

 **10:05:19 a.m.**  
Neither of them noticed the electronic squeal from the other room, because they were kissing. But every dog in a quarter-mile radius started barking, and Gina, who had returned to stand with the line, process pre-order receipts, and manage the crowd, swiveled her head to stare into the bookstore. She had put off getting the mic system upgraded, and she was beginning to regret it.

* * *

 **10:05:25 a.m.**

Leaf started toward the speaker just as Gina Cowell appeared in the doorway, blinking in the relative shade, her ankle twisting as her heel caught the threshold plate. "Where's Rick?"

* * *

 **10:05:35 a.m.**  
Kate huffed, somewhere between nervous and mischievous. "Look, I really do need to tell you, before you find out for yourself..."

His voice shook a little. She seemed happily excited, but he was afraid to get his hopes up. "What?"

* * *

 **10:05:33 a.m.**  
Leaf hurried from the mystery section toward the P.A. speaker, but being in her 70s and wearing Birkenstocks, didn't quite make it in time.

Gina Cowell hurried in. "If it's acting up again, sometimes you have to take the batteries out..."

* * *

 **10:05:35 a.m.**  
Kate Beckett whispered to Rick, and also to everyone in a 30-foot radius, _"I'm not wearing any panties."_

* * *

 **10:05:38 a.m.**  
Gina blanched.

Leaf unplugged the P.A. and stared around the room, the cord dangling from her fingers like a martyred skink.

Fortunately there were only a few customers in the store - who looked at one another and snickered, or who buried their red faces in books. The sound didn't seem to have broadcast Kate's Declaration of Indepanties outside to the people in line, and Tree hadn't heard it either.

Gina stood for a moment, open-mouthed, staring at the PA speaker. She looked around wildly - presumably for Beckett and Castle, or possibly for a gaping hole to open up in the floor to swallow her whole. Her hand clutched her cardboard travel cup, which burst apart, showering rum-infused cappuccino all over her cream-colored Valentino silk-cotton blend skirt-suit. The stain looked like a Rorschach print of a butterfly being sucked into a nuclear fission tower.

"Shit," she sighed. "Where are they?"

"Back office," Leaf said, "You okay?"

Gina turned on her heel and walked out, headed for the E-Z-8 Bar and Grille, across the street. She pounded on the door, and waited. She pounded again.

Out on the sidewalk, the crowd erupted into a furor of amused speculation. Leaf came outside to calm everyone down.  
"Hey, folk, everyone got their coffee? Good. Now just hang out here, it's a beautiful day. Anyone need a chair?" She called Tree to bring folding chairs for the older folks who might have trouble standing too long. "Mr. Castle's interviewing with a, uh, law enforcement person and they just need a couple more minutes, I'm sure."

Most of the people in line were locals, and they knew Leaf well. A lot of them were also fairly well acquainted with the man himself. "What, is he getting high in the back room?"

Leaf shrugged. "Have any of you ever seen him high at a book signing?"

"Well, no, not at a signing."

"Well, there ya go. What he's discussing with that cop, I'm not at liberty to say." Leaf grinned. "Maybe she needs him to consult on a case."

* * *

 **10:05:44 a.m.**  
Castle's mind had been spinning all kinds of miserable scenarios where Kate would tease him, reel him in, then unceremoniously drop him. Now his thought track emitted the zipping squeal of a phonograph needle scratching across an old vinyl record. His mouth fell open in shock, then his eyes narrowed. "You. Panties?" he spluttered.

"Mm. You don't mind, do you? They're in my pocket..." Kate breathed, grinning wickedly. She reached halfway into her blazer pocket to reveal a little red scrap of lace and silk. Wide-eyed, he looked down, slipped his thumbs under the hem of her skirt and hitched it up, exposing her soft mound of dark-brown curls. Her center was framed by a red satin garter belt, and the lacy stocking-tops, just barely darker than her tanned skin.

"Ohhhhmyyygoddd," he moaned. His hands slid back to grasp the back of her thighs, just below her naked ass. "For me?"

She said, "I could put them back on if you like. The panties."

"Don't you _dare_ ," he muttered. Now they stood thigh to thigh, with her leaning back, her weight mostly on the desk. SO close.

He said, "Wait a second." He gently disengaged from her grasp, took one of the guest chairs and tilted it to block entry from the bookstore. "Lock's probably useless."

He returned to her, and she unfastened his trousers as he unbuttoned her tight little blouse. Underneath she wore no bra, and his hands cupped and caressed her as she did the same to him. Running the tip of his tongue delicately along her throat, he caught a blonde polyester hair on his lip. "Thith wig. Pfft. It hath to go."

Kate nodded "Okay, but it'll look stupid."

"That's inconceivable."

"I don't think that word means what you think it means."

He helped her take the wig off, as he'd done as a backstage assistant at more than one of his mother's summer theatrical gigs. Kate had gathered her hair into extremely unflattering little buns all over her head, but they took the pins out efficiently, then the two of them quickly finger-combed her hair into a coiling mess of friendly bronzed snakes.

"Medusa," he whispered. "You've turned me to stone."

Her fingers stroked up and down in just the right place. "Better than stone."

He gulped. "Did you bring any protection?"

"Well, since I got that very nice note from your doctor that you forwarded to me, in the interest of full disclosure, I decided to ask for an equally nice note from my doctor to you. We both have a perfect bill of health." She gave him a little squeeze. "Do you want to see it... first... hand?"

"I'll trust you on that." He kissed her, pressing himself against her flat belly. "Mh. You. So soft."

"But then there's you. So hard." She spoke into his ear, then ran the tip of her tongue along his earlobe. "And I'm on the pill. So..." she ran a finger all the way up, then all the way down, "if you haven't had sex with anyone since your last checkup... we don't need to use anything at all."

"Wow. Really?" He looked like a kid with a new rocket launcher on Christmas morning. "Of _course_ I haven't... I was waiting for you."

Her eyes flickered warmth. "This is a kind of new thing for me. Really bare." Her fingers caressed his manhood. Normally in a similar situation with other people, each of them would have been insisting on a prophylactic. They were both New Yorkers, born and raised at Ground Central for HIV. Both raised to be just a little paranoid about STIs. No glove, no love.

He groaned, then nodded understanding. "I've never... I mean I've broken a condom a couple of times but never on purpose..." he hesitated.

"Otherwise Alexis would never have happened?"

"Right."

Kate said, "I've never even had one break." She gave a long, slow stroke with her fingers. "I can see this thing of yours you might have presented a challenge to acceptable latex expansion standards."

He blushed, a little proud of his genetic gift, and rasped, "You're sure?"

She sat up straight and pulled his forehead down to rest against hers. " _So_ sure."

"Oh, good."

She changed the angle of her hips, then lifted her legs to wrap around his waist. "Then come inside."

* * *

 **10:06 a.m.**  
Alice, the 10-to-6-shift bartender at the E-Z-8 Bar and Grille, heard pounding on the door. She was running a little late. She opened it, and a frosty-looking blonde charged in. "Got any Bacardi?"

"Sure, Honey. I'm not quite set up yet..."

"All I need is a stool and a bottle."

"You had any breakfast yet?"

"No. How about a strawberry daiquiri?"

"Sorry. Besides, I don't think rum before noon is a good idea unless you're a pirate." She put out a shot of Stolichnaya, neat. Then she poured a glass of orange juice. "Juice is on the house."

"Thanks."

Alice also set out a bowl of pretzels. "So, how's your mornin' going, Hon?" She looked a bit like Bonnie Raitt, or maybe Meryl Streep, with a long face, sharp eyes, and a mane of reddish hair.

Gina downed the shot then took a sip of the orange juice. "Utterly fucked." She examined Alice's hair. "Is that your natural color?"

Alice chuckled. "Better living through chemistry, Darlin'."

Gina sighed. "Good. I just... I don't have good luck with redheads."

* * *

 **10:08 a.m.**  
Kate was already so _wet_... Rick gasped, and his eyes went wide as he made a slick pass along her surface. He tweaked an eyebrow and smirked knowingly, "You've been busy." She smelled intoxicating: sweet, tart, musky, and he wanted to drown in her, already so close to her, so hungry for her.

"I made myself ready for you," she purred. "You can tell?"

"Mmmmmyeah. That is so... Unh." His breath was hot in her ear, and he sucked hard kisses down her throat and shoulder. "Yes," he husked. "I can tell." His broad thumb spiraled low a few times, she bucked and gasped, then he brought his slippery fingers up to feather and circle, tease and nudge.

"Castle." She squirmed against him, moaning softly.

"You want me." His voice shook, confirming something he still had trouble really believing despite ample evidence. Twenty minutes ago he'd been trying to face their relationship's early death. It was now, clearly, very much alive indeed.

They didn't notice that the bookstore had opened, the autograph seekers still outdoors in line, but a few actively shopping customers browsing the shelves.

"Want you," she chuckled, low and sexy. "Oh, yeah. I had a busy morning on the plane, then in my hotel room. I want you _bad_."

"How bad?"

" _Very_ bad." She spanked his ass once, not too hard. He yelped, much more from excitement than pain.

She pouted. "You've made me wait so... very... _long_..."

* * *

 **10:09 a.m.**  
Out in the bookstore, because of the hearing issues, Tree was the only person who didn't hear Beckett in full command mode:

"Now, be a good boy and GIVE IT TO ME!"

* * *

 **10:09 a.m.**  
According to my rather sketchy notes, the usual drill (pardon me) in a bodice-ripping romance story is along these lines: Our Hero is a complete gentleman, and makes The Woman Of His Dreams climax a couple of times. _Then_ they have intercourse. It takes two hours, they go for three rounds, and the angels sing as their souls merge in blissful flight. There are also doves, the battling of tongues for dominance, their eyes change colors more times than the gelled lights at a KISS concert, and then come the fireworks.

They had already covered just about everything except for the technicality of _Insert Piston P Into Cylinder V_. But that had been weeks ago, back in New York. Castle and Beckett's first foray past foreplay was nothing like that. This was not slow, languid, romantic lovemaking.

This was gonna be straight-up, raunchy _fucking_.

* * *

 **10:09 a.m.**  
Alice queued up the Greatest Heartbreak Hits on the jukebox: "All By Myself", "Love Hurts", "Eleanor Rigby" "Total Eclipse of the Heart", "Yesterday", and to get things a bit more cheery, "When Will I Be Loved", to end with "I Will Survive". Alice had an un-used BA in psychology from Phoenix University, and had coached many a lovelorn drinker through Kubler-Ross' stages of grief. Gina finished her orange juice, which set to arguing mid-tummy with her unfinished cappucino-with-rum.

Alice was slicing lemons across the bar from Gina. "Sounds like ol' Ricky's been a bit of a a challenge." Alice hadn't heard a new drunken rant since the third Star Wars prequel was released. Gina Cowell melting down over her ex was better than watching Jerry Springer.

"It's not just Ricky. It's Bicky. Beckett. Bitchy. Do you know how to make a Cosmo?"

"Yeah, but first you gotta eat some breakfast." She dialed the diner next door. "Hi, Ramona. You guys busy? Yeah, just busy enough. Can you have Jimmy start up a Morning After Special?"

"What's that?" Gina scowled.

"You'll love it. Thanks, Ramona. No real rush. We'll be over in fifteen or so."

"What did you order?"

"It's a pancake sundae with a scoop of coffee chip ice cream and hot fudge. Also crumbled crispy bacon."

"Oh, my God!" Gina rolled her eyes. "That sounds amazing."

"Comfort food," said Alice. "Something to look forward to."

She waited a moment, smiling pleasantly while Gina glowered into a glass that continued to be empty.

"Want another shot," she grumbled.

"Is that literal or metaphorical?"

Gina flicked a moment of recognition at Alice: this bartender was no idiot. "Both."

Alice pulled out a couple of clean white towels and some spray cleaner, and set them on the bar. She pulled on some rubber cleaning gloves. "This is a hell of a song, isn't it?"

Eric Carmen's anguished tenor warbled up to a crescendo:

 _"All by myself, I don't wanna beee_  
 _Alll by myyyyy sellllf, any morrrrrrre..."  
_

Alice held up a plastic trash container lined with a bag. Gina was already turning green. She snatched the container from Alice, clutching it with a groan, then doubled over and did the Technicolor yawn.

Alice smiled. "It's okay, Hon. You'll feel better after the bacon."

* * *

 **If you're under 18, please don't read this part. Thanks. Resume at 10:13:31  
If you're over 18, grab a nice beverage and lock the door. Maybe put a chair under the knob. That's not an obscure euphemism, just practical advice if your lock isn't 100% reliable.**

 **10:09:21 a.m.**

"You want it bad," Rick agreed, the look almost angry, predatory. He paused at her entrance a moment, and they shared a deep breath, eyes wide.

Her mouth opened, and although she couldn't actually speak, her brain was tossing a salacious word salad: _"This, this inch. And this inch. And, and oh my god this one, and this one's good too, and this one is better, and oh, holy shit what have I gotten myself into, and yes, this one, and oh my god that was more than I expected and..."_ She emitted a low, throaty moan, grimacing with that mix of pain and pleasure unique to desire. This was worth the wait. Worth. The. Oh! _God._ Everything.

He made just the smallest circle, in just the right place. Already so primed with desire, she felt her entire body starting to vibrate, climax as inevitable as sunrise. She lay back on the desk beneath him, transfixed, her eyes half open, her lips red as a hummingbird's breast.

He growled, "You don't always get what you want, Kate. Because you want it bad and this... this is _good._ "

"Yes." She reached up to brush his nipples with short, clean white nails, and then her long legs clasped him at waist and hip, an embrace he needed more than life itself. She rocked him into her just a little bit deeper still. "Uhhh. SO good."

He groaned, dizzy with ardor, then chuckled, "So many clowns. So little time." He stopped, holding his breath, trying to tamp back an explosion, hiding in humor while he mastered his own passion.

"I want the whole fucking circus this time," she panted. "Starting with the train." She gripped his ass with her calves, let her legs spread impossibly wider, stretched around him, squeezing, so tight, so full... hovering at the edge of release, shaking with it. She cried out as he ground against her.

Then he took her hand and placed it between them. "You want it fast? Go for it," he smirked. "I'm inside you," he whispered. She hardly needed to be reminded, but oh, that voice of his, talking her through. Their joined bodies moving involuntarily, the full focus of their mutual obsession finally laid bare, his hands stroking her breasts and down her sides. "You're all over me, I'm all over you, and you are So. Damn. Close."

"H- _AH!_ " she muttered, her pupils huge, gaze fixed on him. "Kiss me."

He pressed a grin into hers, then murmured, his voice iron and velvet: "Just kiss?" He yanked out then slammed in again. "When you can fuck me, Kate? When I can fuck you?"

"Fuck... yeah. Just. Like... UH!"

"THIS!" The desk almost thrashed under their impact.

Their mouths fused, a perfect balance of force and delicacy. Kate gasped and then whimpered, stopped a second, holding her breath, then he gave it to her. It was too fast, and damn dirty, and a hell of a lot of fun. The desk shook beneath her, the floor creaked, Kate whimpered and keened into his mouth, and he could feel her voice inside his skull. He could feel her all around him, growing tighter, pulling him deeper until, at climax, her body went off like a fire alarm.

* * *

 **10:11:08**  
(In fact, there was a fire station 1/4 mile further down the highway, with a Jack Russel terrier named Jack, but he was nicknamed Radar for his legendary ability to sense fires before they even happened. Radar set up barking for two minutes solid but gave up when the dispatch alarm didn't go off. If anyone had asked the patrons at Sally's coffee house, they might have been able to explain it.) (But remember: coincidence does not guarantee causality.) (Tell that to the dog.)

* * *

 **10:11:15**  
Rick threw in along with Beckett, hot and messy and animal, his building fervor just stretching her waves out as she came, and came, and came.

"Don't stop now, I want it all, I need you," she begged. He banged her against the desk, faster and harder, her climax rolling and repeating around him, her strong legs still roping him in, squeezing him, his body and mind drawn in and owned, inexorably and inescapably.

They lost all sense of discretion (and command of the English language). Somebody definitely screamed. Could have been either one of them, or both. He took his weight on powerful arms as their mouths sealed and slicked and sucked, skin to skin, his hands reaching to pull her up to a sit again, worshiping at her breasts as she laced her fingers around the back of his neck.

Her wet heat overwhelmed him. He made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl and a Tibetan singing bowl the size of a kitchen sink. She felt him losing control, picking up speed, hurtling toward his peak. She bit down at the juncture of shoulder and throat, sucking hard. That destroyed him and remade him in one almighty explosion, and when she felt him flooding into her, she circled around to climax again. If they hadn't sounded like they were having _such_ a great time, no doubt a passerby would have called Animal Control in concern about an escaped gorilla. Maybe a buffalo. Possibly a tiger. But as it was, all the local consumers at bookstore and coffee house concealed their blushes and avoided eye contact until the roaring ceased.

* * *

 **10:13:31 a.m.**  
Castle collapsed onto (and slightly further into) Beckett, and they lay there for a few moments, catching their breath, coming down. It had been endless, transcendent, timeless, and clocked in from start-to-finish at 4 minutes and 8 seconds, give or take a microsecond or two, not counting the foreplay or hairstyling.

He murmured, "God. Sorry. Too fast."

"Nuh-uh," she giggled. "Just the beginning. Whew, my God, that was..."

When she laughed, rather than feeling any from it about it, Rick realized he'd be ready to go again with very little recovery time. He could still feel her wrapped around him, the sensation so similar to other encounters with other lovers, but so very different without the latex in the way, without worrying about having to pull out and deal with the used condom. It was delicious, forbidden, and yet in this case wholly normal, acceptable. And she loved him already. No questions, no doubts. It felt so...

"Right," he murmured. "Safe."

"Safe," she agreed, soft in his ear, and kissed his temple.

"Mmm. Kate." He sighed into her wild hair, although she hadn't said it aloud, "I love you, too." He let himself just be for a moment, her arms and legs still anchoring him, then they parted with a sigh. He pushed himself to a stand and helped her up. They stood for a long moment, embracing, naked heart to heart, his underwear banded at his calves and pants down around his ankles and her skirt up around her waist. He couldn't help palming her round little ass with his hands again. She hummed happily.

"Okay?" he murmured, his lips barely touching hers.

"Much better than okay," she said into his mouth.

Without warning, the desk tilted wildly, its two left legs finally succumbing to a combination of boring beetles and over-excited lovers. The ancient clip-on lamp pulled its plug out of the wall socket with a shower of sparks.

* * *

 **10:13:45**

"Shit!" Castle cried. Flames spurted out of the outlet, jostling with black smoke detector. The fire alarm went off as flames began licking the wood paneling around the outlet.

* * *

 **10:13:55**  
Radar's ears twitched. He sat up and sniffed, then whined, then growled. He trotted to the door and whined again, then gave a short, shrill yap.

"We got a live one." Fire Captain Enzo Pozzi went for his size 14 boots. The fired department had had to order them specially.

Hamm - who always drove - got on the com. "Step lively, people..." He was down the pole before you could even blink, and had the engine started. He waited for the dispatch call, murmuring "Come on, come on, I got fifty bucks on this one." The crew was all dressed and ready to go, hanging on the truck, waiting.

Pozzi clambered in next to Hamm. "He's been wrong before. Maybe somebody's having a barbecue."

"No way. Wait for it..." In California, September is the height of fire season. Every second counts.

* * *

 **10:14 a.m.**

Then the sprinklers started up in the office. Rick pulled up his underwear but somehow missed his pants and fell over. Kate, who was more graceful, hitched her skirt down and made for the door, stumbling over Rick's leg.

"Ow!"

"Shit, sorry!"

A loud knock came at the door, and Leaf's voice: "Ricky, get the kittens!"

 _"Kittens?"_ He'd bumped an elbow, but was managing to get his pants' waistband fastened as Kate yanked the chair from under the knob and opened the door. Leaf was already herding the customers back outside.

Tree stared at Kate from behind the front desk, blinking in confusion. "Whoa. What's goin' on, Man?"

Kate realized in horror that the madrone branch sculpture would go up like an inferno if the flames got out of the office area into the main room. Also that her Officer McNasty blouse was wide open, and Tree was staring in a mix of confusion and appreciation at her dishabille. Buttoning as she sprinted toward Tree, she cried, "We've got a fire!" she said. "Extinguisher?"

"Yeah. Here," Tree said, waving a long arm in a semi-random manner toward the extinguisher. He didn't move so fast anymore. Kate nabbed the extinguisher from right next to him before he could even get to it. There was now enough smoke to trigger the main store's fire alarm, and it was deafening.

"Everybody out!" Kate cried. "Call the fire department."

* * *

 **10:14:30**  
Which is exactly what everybody in line did.

* * *

 **10:14:35**

The dispatch speaker crackled, the warning tone sounded, the call came through loud and clear. "Fire alarm at Tree and Leaf at Snake Grade. Looks like structure. Sprinklers engaged. You copy?"

"Fuck yeah!" Hamm yelled. He flipped the siren on and peeled the truck out onto the highway, headed for Arroyo Manzanita.

* * *

 **10:14:40**  
Kate ran back into the office to find that Rick had somehow disappeared in the deluge. "Castle?"

"...Kittens!" he yelled from somewhere else.

"Kittens?"

"Under the..." He popped up from under the desk. "Help me!" Then he disappeared behind it again. They heard a fire siren approaching - the firehouse was less than a quarter mile away.

"Right." She released the pin on the fire extinguisher and yellow C02 goo spurted onto the flames. The sprinkler had already doused the wall, so it didn't take much.

"First the fire. Now the kittens," she said.

His voice was muffled. "Can't... reach... ow."

She grabbed her trench coat and threw it on, shuddering at the unpleasant shock of cold water inside the coat. Leaf charged into the room.

"What the hell, Ricky?" she yelled.

"I broke your desk," he said. "I'm so sorry."

"Aw, shit," Leaf sighed. "There's a basket under the desk, the kittens - Look, you lift it up. Oh, if they're ... " she stopped, teary-eyed. "What the fuck happened?"

"We, uh," Kate said. "It's my fault. I sat on it."

" _My_ fault," Rick insisted.

* * *

(Technically, this was true, but that's another story. I'll get to it in **_47_** , I promise!)

* * *

He lifted the front part of the desk. She could barely hear tiny mewlings among the alarm's deafening scream. Leaf found a flashlight in one of the lockers.

She handed it to Kate, who crawled under the desk, searching in its shadow and recesses as Rick held it up, balanced on its two remaining right legs. As her sheer stockings were rent by splinters, Kate could feel the floor sagging under her knees. Underneath the desk, Kate found an empty basket lined with old towels, but no visible sign of the kittens themselves.

Kate yelled, "I can't hear them, but it's so loud in here - Leaf, can you stop the alarm?" Leaf nodded and hurried for the control box. She shut off the alarms and sprinklers. Then she busied herself opening windows and fanning the room to clear the smoke. It wasn't helping much, and the room smelled unpleasantly of ozone and wet books.

Now Kate could hear their the shrill wailing of distressed kittens. _"Meeiw. Yeeiw. Yiiiewwww!"_

"Hold it up, Castle, I think..." Beckett started with the top drawer. There was nothing but a whole lot of envelopes, so she stopped, and went to the middle drawer, pulling it further out with tremendous care. It came to a soft stop, and their was a shrill squeak of complaint, so she pushed it all the way back in, with infinite gentleness despite their precarious situation. She glanced at Rick, who was standing over her, shirtless and soaking wet, his biceps bulging with the strain of holding the desk up. His fly was open, but now was not the time to mention that. "Okay, I think they might..." she slowly eased the bottom file drawer open. Somehow the kittens - possibly frightened by certain amorous activities - had crept into the belly of the desk itself and retreated into the partly-open drawer to huddle between the vertical files. Kate peered in. "Okay, there's four here."

Leaf wrung her hands. "Only four?"

"Two gray tabbies, one ginger, one black tuxedo."

"There should be another tux kitty, with a little black mustache," Leaf's voice shook. Kate handed Leaf the basket and pulled out the four squalling fur-babies, their tiny paws flailing uselessly. Leaf tried to put them in the basket, which was still dry, sheltered from the sprinklers by the desk. But, going for comfort, two kittens crawled up her chest, one burrowed under her new scarf, and one jumped off onto the floor and ran out into the bookstore, where Tree swooped down like an anxious stork to rescue the errant baby. Kate carefully pulled the heavy bottom file drawer off its tracks and lifted it out, setting it aside on the floor, then opened the second drawer, and there was the fifth kitten. _"Meeiew!"_

"Oh, Chaplin!" cried Leaf. She was practically in tears.

Kate knelt back from the desk and, with the kitten clamped in the shelter of one elbow, got up and stepped around Castle. She handed Chaplin to Leaf, who hurried away into the bookstore and then outside, soaking wet and festooned with tiny felines, indifferent to the wreckage of her office. When Leaf took them outside, there was a resounding cheer from the worried crowd.

Rick grunted, "Anything you can prop the desk with?"

"Oh. Yeah." Kate found a couple stacks of discard books and wedged them under the desk. "Okay, lift up. One more... there we go." She turned to glance at Rick and smirked. She was feeling oddly giddy, rattled by the chain of events. "Castle," she said. "Zipper."

Castle looked down at his crotch in alarm and, instinctively going for his zipper, dropped the desk, just an inch, onto the books. It should have felt like a minor impact, but the whole office shook. The floorboards splintered and fell away. The desk plunged through, tumbling down the steep, rocky slope underneath, sheared off a support pillar, smashed through the criss-crossed lathe concealing the building's under-workings, and launched itself into the stream.

Kate, off-balance, lurched sideways toward the gaping hole, but Castle caught her firmly and pulled her to him with a "Whoa!" He planted his feet and launched them backward through the bookstore threshold. He landed on his butt, she landed on his lap, and they lay there on the green carpeting a moment, gasping and staring up at the painted ceiling, the madrone branches and fairy lights. The little Balinese goddess swayed overhead. This part of the building had a firm foundation, as opposed to being a remodeled sun-porch, and thank God, the sprinklers hadn't gone off in this area. He clung to Kate in a sort of protective desperation.

She lay encircled in his arms. "Wow. You okay?"

He grunted, a little painfully. "Yeah. I can still feel my feet and everything."

With a deep, wooden groan, the broken pillar underneath the office collapsed. The floor sagged into a deep V at the middle. The lockers, fridge, water cooler, and a few hundred loose and boxed books all jostled together like angry rugby fans, and their combined weight began to crumple the back wall. The broken desk lamp skittered down last, its cord whipping like a rattlesnake's tail. The lamp cord caught Kate's wig and yanked it down toward oblivion. The wig snagged a moment on a splintered floorboard (Rick could have sworn it whispered, "Fly, you fools!"), then disappeared. Then the entire office floor gave way, and the back wall followed it with a roar of breaking glass, leaving Kate and Rick sitting on the shop floor, blinking in bright sunshine, coughing at the dust that clung to their damp skin.

The employee time clock went "DING!"

* * *

 **10:18 a.m.**

They rose to stand together, laughing because, come on, if something like that doesn't get you killed, what else can you do?

Kate tried to catch her breath. "I can see that we're going to be very hard on furniture."

Rick gave her a happy squeeze. "And you are surprisingly soft. On crime." He led her in a sidestep behind a bank of bookcases. He finally got to pull his zipper up. She finished buttoning her blouse and took off the incriminating "Officer McNasty" pin. Rick stuck that in his pocket. "I'm gonna treasure this forever."

She looked at his face and a grin lit up her eyes. "Got a hankie?"

He nodded and reached into his back pocket. She took it and wiped her smeared lipstick off his face, and made an attempt to smooth his hair. Hers was utterly wild, the brown curls sticking out in all directions.

Belindy the Calico Cat chose this moment to mince out from behind the register counter. She rubbed against Rick's ankles, then gazed up at Kate with golden eyes and mewed softly. Kate realized Belindy was looking at the little flying goddess, swaying above her head. Kate squatted to pet the cat.

"Aren't you pretty. Surprised all the noise didn't freak her out."

"She's pretty fearless," Rick said, "Careful. She seems sweet right up to the moment she tries to remove your hand."

"Little but fierce, huh?" Kate held her fingers out. They were still a little damp. Belindy sniffed at her, wavering between curiosity and disdain.

Rick spotted some sawdust in Kate's hair. As he leaned down to brush it away, Gina stomped into the bookstore, a coffee stain on her jacket, her eyes blazing.

She stared the two of them up and down. They were both soaking wet, Rick shirtless with scratch marks down his torso, Kate on her knees, absentmindedly holding a pair of red lace panties. The cat startled and slunk away to hide behind a bookshelf.

Gina sneered, "Well, Rick, that was even faster than usual."

Rick's face flamed, but it was true - probably the fastest he'd been (at least, when he wasn't flying solo) since his first time as a teen.

Kate found herself blushing, not in embarrassment but in anger. She stood and stepped toward Gina, who stumbled backward in alarm.

Kate said, "Considering we've had 18 months of extremely pleasurable foreplay, I have no complaints. And in four hours or so, I'll be having no complaints again."

Gina scowled. She knew Rick's recovery time as well as anyone could. If anything, Kate was underestimating him. She said, "Yeah, and in a month it'll all be over."

For some reason, this struck Rick as almost funny. "If by 'over' you mean 'just starting'." He and Kate shared a grin.

Gina huffed. With no provocation but with a yowling battle cry, little Belindy ran out from behind the bookshelf, reared up to claw Gina's ankle, shredded her pantyhose, and darted away. Gina cried "FUCK!" and spun dizzily. The cat disappeared behind the register again.

"Whoa, are you all right?"

"FUCK you and the broom you rode in on!" Gina spluttered.

"Catfight," Rick smirked under his breath. Gina whirled away, staggering slightly, and headed for the door.

She ran right smack into all six feet four inches of Fire Captain Enzo Pozzi, who was carrying a fire axe and yanked it out of harm's way, just in time. He looked down at her with quizzical brown eyes and said, "So, where's the fire?"

Gina hiccuped and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Ask them." She sauntered out the front door, where she saw the fire crew hooking a hose to the hydrant, Tree and Leaf herding the crowd across the street toward the movie theater, and Alice smiling at her from the open doorway of E-Z-8 Bar and Grille.

* * *

 **10:21 a.m.**

Beckett had ducked behind a bookcase and was hastily struggling into her panties.

Rick spoke to the fire captain. "Hey, Pozzi, how you doin'?"

Captain Pozzi said, "Hey, Castle! Been a while. Not so bad." He hefted his axe. "So you got a wall fire?"

"Well," Rick said. "We had one. But the wall's gone." He glanced to the side.

A rumpled-looking brunette supermodel in a blue trench coat peeped out from behind the bookcase. She read his nametag. "Captain Pozzi." Her voice was surprisingly firm, and Pozzi realized he was talking to a professional. Exactly what kind of professional, he wasn't sure. "I think you might want to check the debris pile for embers."

Pozzi chuckled, then clapped Rick on the shoulder. "Shit, man, leave it to you." He looked out the back door and down-slope at the avalanche of literary detritus. "Okay, Hamm, let's hook up the hose."

"That's alliterative," said Rick.

"I am the Shakespeare of firefighters," said Pozzi with a bow. The hose was threaded through the building with care, and water rained down on the already-wet pile. Sure enough, a bit of smoke rose up from the wall timbers around the failed outlet. And Kate's wig, caught up in the torrent, washed down and into the creek, bobbing away in the muddy water, never to be seen again by human eyes.

* * *

While the firemen worked, Rick went to the T-shirt section. "So, what do you suggest?"

Kate looked over his shoulder. "What, nothing with 'Nice Melons' on it?"

He settled on a brown T-shirt inscribed in yellow with the words "Aim to Misbehave".  
Kate grinned. "That one suits you."

He nodded. "I know."

Beckett said, "Seriously, Castle, do you know everybody?"

"Long story," he smiled. He went behind the register, found a pair of scissors, and nipped off the price tag. He wrote something on the back of the tag, popped open the antique cash register ("DING!"), and stuck the tag in the drawer., then pulled the shirt on over his head. He paused a moment to pick up his blazer, then thought better and left it hanging over the back of his chair. He grabbed a couple of water bottles. "Wanna go to a signing party?"

"Aren't you gonna pay for the shirt?"

He shook his head. "I'll settle up later."

* * *

 **10:22 a.m.**  
Gina staggered across the street toward Alice, narrowly avoiding being flattened by a County Sheriff's car. She walked heavily up the steps.

Alice said, "Did it work?"

Gina nodded. "Yeah. It's over."

"Good. Now you can move on. Let's get you that sundae." She shut the door (no need to lock it around here) and led Gina into the diner with an arm around her shoulder.

The sheriff pulled his car over and slammed the door, got out and swaggered up to Gina and Alice.

Alice said, "Hi, Bob, what's up?"

"Your friend there just almost got run over jaywalking. By me."

Gina stared at him, eyes glazed. Bob looked way too much like Chris Hemsworth. She didn't seem to really hear what he was saying. "Are all the men in this town like, uh, this?"

"Like what?" Alice said. "Anyway, my friend Gina here just got her heart broke."

"That's no excuse for..."

"Rick Castle. She's Rick's ex-wife."

"The bookie one?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." The sheriff took off his hat. "Sorry, hon. He's a catch. Took my sister close to two years to get over him."

Alice said, "We're going for the Cure."

Sheriff Hemsworth (who cares what his real name was?) nodded. "Morning After? I gotcha. Might come in for lunch when this is all done. Long shift."

Alice nodded, leading Gina into the diner. Gina stared around, a bit dazed. The diner had an open kitchen. The cook, Jimmy, was the spitting image of Elvis Presley. _Blue Hawaii Elvis Presley._

The hostess approached them. "Hey, good morning, ladies. You want a booth, a table, or..."

"Counter's fine," Gina rasped. She took off her linen jacket. Underneath, her blouse was reasonably unscathed.

Alice sat down next to her. "Hey, Jimmy!" she called out. "You got that Morning After started?"

Jimmy said, "Hey, Alice." He was sprinkling bacon on a short stack of pancakes, topped with a scoop of ice cream, hot fudge, and whipped cream on top. He gave Gina a wicked smile. "This for you?"

Gina nodded, her mouth dry. It had been quite a morning, but it was beginning to improve. "I hope so."

Jimmy set the dish up on the counter and rang the bell. Gina watched as he smiled at her then turned his back, working at the grill, slamming together fried eggs, bacon, a literal meadow of hash browns, a tidy row of sausages.

He had a truly spectacular ass. She spoke out of the side of her mouth to her new friend. "This is better than Australia."

Alice nodded. "The guys? I know. People say it's the water."

The waitress brought Gina her Morning After Special. She took a bite and moaned softly. A quarter mile away, safe in the firehouse, Radar growled and barked a couple times, but nobody was there to hear him.

* * *

 **10:23 a.m.**  
Tree and Leaf met with the fire crew, and the marshall when she arrived, and it was determined that, while the office structure was a total loss, the main store and solarium were fine. The back side of the building and creek were roped off. A cleanup crew was called in to haul the debris back up the hill and sort it out. They got hold of the local architect who'd helped jack up the foundation, and the contractor who'd gotten that part done, and by 10:45 a.m., Tree and Leaf were on track to have their entire back office replaced in time for Halloween.

* * *

 **10:25 a.m.**

Before Kate could be accused of impersonating an officer (even though she actually was one), Rick and Kate hurried to the movie theater to make his presentation. No audience had shown up for the 10 a.m. showing of _"Machete"_ , so the kid at the box office charged Rick $400, and everyone got popcorn and a small fountain drink thrown in for free. Then Rick did a Mystery and Crime Novel trivia contest and tossed people boxes of candy when they got the right answers, proving to public record that while he had a powerful throwing arm, his aim was abysmal. The theater was small and didn't have an actual stage, per se, but the acoustics were fine. So Rick and Kate sat up front in a couple of folding chairs, Rick read a chapter aloud from his latest book, then he and the shy woman next to him answered questions about writing and law enforcement and the maddening things that happen when movies and books completely ignore procedural questions. Someone had googled enough to know that this formerly-blonde lady in the buttone-up trench coat was Katherine Beckett, of Nikki Heat fame. Everyone seemed to know why she was really there. But this was a small town, and people mind their own business, so nobody teased them about it. Then people lined up for autographs, asking questions and telling stories. One lady cried. There was no Kleenex, so someone came up with paper napkins for her. Nobody passed out.

Tree and Leaf had to close the store for the day, of course, after dealing with the authorities and the electrical guy. They rolled a trolley filled with boxes of books across the street to the theater. That day, Tree and Leaf sold out their entire catalog of Richard Castle titles, including the Victoria St. Claire romances and "Hell Hath No Fury", which became a so-bad-it's-good cult favorite among the local teens.

In other words, it was a very, very good day.

* * *

 **There will be a little denouement, but I'm tired, so it's gonna have to wait a few days. I should tell you that having butted my head against this story for so long, it would have been NICE if it had introduced me to Alice and Radar like, in May. Were they just hanging around waiting for me to write about them? Geez.**

 **Moral: Just write the damn thing.**


End file.
